


Porte-Cochere

by PalenDrome (nerdherderette)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Devil Wears Prada Fusion, Anal Sex, Boss/Employee Relationship, Community: hp_crossgenfest, Cross-Generation Relationship, Dirty Talk, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fashion & Couture, Feels, Inspired by The Devil Wears Prada, Light Angst, M/M, POV Multiple, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-28 12:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15707544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdherderette/pseuds/PalenDrome
Summary: For theprompt:Draco needs an assistant. Albus is way too eager to apply for the jobSummary:Draco Malfoy is the editor-in-chief ofPorte-Cochere,the top fashion rag in all of wizarding Europe. He has a love of haute couture, a fondness for cock, and a penchant for dropping his assistants like last season's styles.It’s enough to drive his staff spare. Could Albus be the answer to their prayers?AThe Devil Wears PradaAU.





	1. Above the Line (Blaise)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magpie_fngrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_fngrl/gifts).



> Dear magpie_fngrl: I was absolutely thrilled to fill your prompt. I really, really wanted to write you a delicious PWP, but all the feels got in the way. Thanks for being as wonderful as you are, and a constant source of inspiration.
> 
> Many thanks to my fabulous beta, [crazyparakiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss). I threw this at you at what was truly the last minute, but you still managed to give me incredible advice while cheering me on. And much thanks to [gracerene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/pseuds/gracerene), not only for taking on the task of modding this fabulous fest, but for being _so_ patient with me as I wrestled with the deadline(s).  <3

“Decrease our advertisement space by a third? Why that short-sighted, plug-ugly, limp-pricked fucker!”

“Bit of an oxymoron, that last one,” Blaise remarked. He stirred his tea, barely batting an eye at the shouts which emanated from behind the locked office. A stray leaf swirled along the rim of his cup, which he scooped up with cool precision. “Wait for it,” he murmured, settling back into his seat. “On three. One. Two—”

The sound of breaking glass was unmistakable as it echoed throughout the twentieth-floor.

Terence glanced at the heavy-set walnut doors behind them. “Two-and-a-half. The boss is in rare form today.”

Blaise let out a long-suffering sigh. “Word is that Delphini Riddle is back in town,” he mused. “Apparently, she was snatched up by Tattler’s Advertising Agency. As the senior assistant to Mr Tattler himself.”

“And you think that she somehow got hold of Tattler’s ear?”

“Knowing Delphini, his ear and some other parts as well.” Blaise smirked as Terence shuddered. “That girl’s too smart—and vindictive—by half. She was let go in quite the humiliating fashion, if you remember. I wouldn’t put it past her to do anything she could to put Draco at a disadvantage.” A thunderous crash nearly broke Blaise’s composure. “Salazar! I hope that wasn’t the Ming. It took nearly two thousand Galleons and three top experts to reverse the damage he did to it the last time.”

Terence straightened his cuffs. “I say he’ll be out another editorial assistant before the day’s over. Even if she _is_ his best friend’s daughter.”

Blaise looked affronted. “ _I’m_ his best friend, and _I_ say the poor girl won’t last another two hours.” There was an uncomfortable silence, followed by a dull thud. “What in the bloody hell was that?!”

A pale blond coiffe suddenly appeared as the door swung open. “Blaise! Stop dallying, and get your sorry arse in here, you lazy sod!” It disappeared once again as the door slammed shut.

Terence gave Blaise a sympathetic look. “Why do you put up with this?” he asked quietly. “You’re the best creative director in the business.”

Blaise stood. “Because Draco’s been my closest friend for over thirty years. Because he gave us all an opportunity when we had next to nothing, and because this lazy sod is all he’s got. And by the way, I’m revising my former estimate. Delilah won’t make it past the hour.”

**.~xOx~.**

Thirty-seven minutes later, Blaise found himself trying to soothe an inconsolable Delilah Nott.

“Please, Uncle Blaise,” she sobbed. “Will you speak to him again? Mummy will be devastated if I can’t keep this job.” Delilah shook her head, her sleek bob swinging wildly as her chin wobbled. “I’m not sure what I even _did_ to make him so angry!”

Blaise looked down at the tear stains which were threatening the wool of his Dunhill suit and grimaced. There was a reason why he never had children. Well, perhaps two. “Your mother will do no such thing. I’ll speak with your godfather.”

That stopped the wailing, at least temporarily. “But he’s never taken anyone back,” Delilah said between sniffles.

Blaise frowned; that much was true. “Well, if I can’t get through to Draco, I’ll reach out to your mother. Everything will be all right; you’ll see.” He graced Delilah with his most winning smile. “Have some faith in me.”

“I know you’ll do your best. But everyone knows Draco is impossible when he gets into a snit. I don’t know why I ever thought that taking this job would be a fun way to spend the summer.” Delilah’s golden-brown eyes glistened, brimming with a crop of fresh tears that threatened to spill over.

“Why don’t you go home? I’ll meet with Draco and owl you with the outcome. Oh, and you may want to stop by The Closet on your way out. I’ll bet Terence can find something in there to cheer you up. No nicking the big-ticket items, but there’s probably a nice necklace or a makeup kit that’s perfect for you.”

Delilah’s lips pulled into a weak smile. “Thanks, Uncle Blaise.” She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a kiss. “You’re the best.”

**.~xOx~.**

“You are the absolute worst,” Blaise fumed. “How could you fire Delilah like that? Theo’s one of your best friends, not to mention your solicitor, and Pansy’s going to have your bollocks on a platter!”

Draco waved Blaise aside. The debris in his office had been _Evanesco’d_ —well, all except the irreplaceable pieces, which were now packaged and on their way to Sotheby’s for some advanced Reparo spellwork. “She cocked up my order. Again. Brought me a Grande, bone dry with six-shot ristretto and one sugar.”

Blaise swore he could hear the grinding of his own teeth. Good thing he had a cosmetic dentist at the ready. “That’s what you order _every_ morning.”

Draco arched a brow. “She forgot the extra whip.”

“Didn’t get your fill last night?” Blaise asked, letting out a huff as Draco stared, his pale lips thinning. “Have a heart, Draco. She’s your goddaughter, for Salazar’s sake!”

“I don’t have time for this, Blaise. This is a place of business, not a crèche. Theo should be thanking _me_ with how much he bills me per hour, and Pansy will just have to get over herself if she wants to hold on to her front row seat at Fashion Week. I’ve got more pressing issues to think about.” He twirled his wand and pointed it towards the bin that sat in the corner. “Any guesses as to what that is?”

Blaise looked at the charred remains, smelling strongly of espresso. “A fire hazard?” he ventured.

Draco made a moue. “The results of our latest circulation. Numbers are down, Blaise. The September issue is just months away, and now Tattler wants to threaten our reach by reducing our exposure.”

“Delphini Riddle—"

“Is a ruthless and bitter cunt. I’m well-aware that she had a hand in this.”

“Perhaps if you had been a little less…inflexible.”

Draco snorted. “There’s a list of delicious men who can attest to just how flexible I am. And, for the record, for every assistant I send away, there’s another twenty lining up to take their place.” His graceful fingers drummed against the edge of the table. “Merlin and Morgana, I’d do anything for a fag right now. Remind me why I had to give up smoking?”

“Because you want to live past fifty? Because it was turning you into an even bitchier queen? How’s this for a novel concept? You make a decision and try to stick with it, for once.”

“Are we still talking about the help, or…” Steel eyes met Blaise’s sharp ones, never wavering. “Some days, it would please me greatly to fire you, you know.”

“So you remind me, at least once a week.” Blaise leant back in his chair; Draco would never, and they both knew it. “You’ve got to stop terrorising the personnel. Stop wasting your energy on the little things, focus on boosting revenue, or we’ll never be able to compete.”

Draco remained quiet for a moment. “You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, flashing his teeth. “It’s decided then; I’m putting you in charge of finding my next assistant. In fact, I’m giving you complete carte blanche in their hiring.”

Blaise’s face paled. “With your final approval, of course.”

“Nonsense. I must remain focused, as you've reminded me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a business matter to settle with Mr Tattler.”

“A simple case of the boils would do just fine, Draco. Anything more than that, and I don’t want to know.”

“Ta in advance, and have a good day,” Draco replied, grinning as he waved Blaise out and shut the door.

*****

Later that morning, Blaise sent off four owls: one, to Delilah with an apology and an invitation for an interview at _Beau Monde;_ the second, an appointment for a private consultation with the fitters at Couture and be Daring, along with a case of Veuve Clicquot Cave Privée Rosé 1990 to Pansy; the third, a carefully drafted letter reminding Theo that he was currently on retainer; and lastly, an advertisement for the newly-available position of senior assistant to _Porte-Cochere’s_ editor-in-chief, to the _Prophet._

Blaise watched as the last great grey owl took off into the sky. Now all he could do was wait.

**.~xOx~.**

As it turned out, it wasn’t much of one. Blaise had returned from a quick lunch to discover his office littered with a parliament of owls and one less-than-enthused secretary.

“Sorry, Daphne,” he said, his expression contrite. “I had no idea we would be getting so many responses, so quickly.”

“We know what he’s like, but for anyone who’s interested in journalism or fashion, it’s practically a rite of passage to work for Draco. All that glamour; all those naive ideals about paying one’s dues.”

“Well, he’ll disabuse them of those notions soon enough.” Blaise looked at the droppings that had accumulated on the table and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I’m not sure where to even start.”

“I’ve already vetted them for you. Organised all the applications into three categories: haute couture, prêt-à-porter, and yesterday’s trash.”

Blaise raised a perfectly-groomed, quizzical brow. “Thank you, Daphne. Whatever would I do without you?”

“I haven’t the faintest. And as long as you’re in a thanking mood, I wear a women’s 36, and a 38 in heels.” Daphne let out the remaining owls, then cast a Scourgify on the desk.

“Clear my schedule tomorrow.” Blaise binned the third group of candidates and started to flip through the rest. When he got to last applicant, his jaw nearly dropped. “Did you see this?!” he stuttered.

“Every single one.”

He waved the parchment in front of her face. “And you’re sure this isn’t a joke?” Upon seeing Daphne’s delicate shrug, Blaise shook his head. “But why would he—? Could you even imagine?”

“Honestly, it could be the worst thing that ever happened, or the answer to our prayers.”

Blaise stroke his chin thoughtfully. “Book him for the last slot of the day. If anything, it will provide what is sure to be an excruciating afternoon with a modicum of amusement.”

**.~xOx~.**

The headache which threatened his temples persisted despite the two Ventis and a catered lunch from Potage. Blaise had spent the last seven hours interviewing countless enthusiastic, fresh-faced, and bright-eyed applicants—all of whom had subsequently withered under his scrutiny. If they couldn’t even survive the first round with him, they would never be able to handle the frantic pressures of the industry, not to mention Draco’s irascible temper.

Over twenty-five wizards and witches were interviewed, yet he had not found one suitable candidate. The pounding in his head grew stronger.

“Daphne?!”

Daphne’s dark head popped in immediately. “Yes, Blaise?”

“When I had taken the applications from you yesterday, was it possible that I could have binned the wrong pile?”

Daphne shuffled through the applicants’ profiles. “I’m afraid not.” She pulled one out, her lacquered nails clicking against the edge of the file. “Geoffrey Brandenberg. Received nearly straight O’s on all his N.E.W.T.s, and won the Lockhart prize two years ago for creative writing.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Mr Brandenberg may be bookish, but he’s utterly incompetent when it comes to anything that requires a quick wit, some bollocks, or creativity. Draco will eat him alive… and have my head, as an afterthought.”

Daphne pulled another folder from the pile. “Alaina Korkova. Spent three years at the Fashion Institute in Paris and interned one summer with Madame Malkin’s, designing witches’ undergarments.”

“She may know the difference between a d’Orsay and a kitten heel, but the woman has an ego that nearly matches Draco’s. I refuse to be named an accessory to either of their murders.”

“Anders Pinchot,” Daphne said, a bit desperately. “Graduated at the top of his class. His family owns a textile business, and he’s got great ambition and drive.”

“Yes, to all the above. And he’s already built a reputation for ruthlessness and burning bridges. We don’t need another Delphini on our hands—or worse, someone who will eventually be gunning to take over Draco’s position.”

“You realise there’s only one applicant left.”

“Yes.” Blaise rubbed the base of his neck. “Please send in Albus Severus Potter.”

**.~xOx~.**

“Hey, Mr Zabini.”

Blaise let his eyes slither over the younger Potter. Albus’s off-the-rack jacket was too tight across the shoulders and two seasons out-of-date, and his high-topped trainers were woefully scuffed. But despite its ill-fit, even the most plebeian clothing couldn’t hide the impressive physique of the former Slytherin Quidditch Team Captain.

 _Merlin. Draco’s going to kill me,_ Blaise thought. He shook Albus’ hand and gestured towards an empty seat.

“Good afternoon, Albus. I’ll admit, your application was somewhat of a surprise.”

“A pleasant one, I hope,” Albus said cheekily.

Blaise hid his shock at Albus’ flirty bravado. “I see that you’ve spent some time working in your uncles’ joke shop,” he remarked, looking over Albus’ resume. “And you’ve written an article advocating for the expansion of creatures’ rights for _The Quibbler_.”

“I also spent one summer interning at a Muggle newspaper,” Albus pointed out.

“None of which have anything to do with the world of fashion.” Blaise looked up from the resume and stared meaningfully at Albus’ clothing. “What made you apply here, of all places?”

“It’s true—I don’t have a background in fashion, unless you count the times my cousins tired of their dolls and turned me into a living mannequin,” Albus said, laughing. “But _Porte-Cochere_ is a well-established magazine with a larger readership, and I want to be a writer.”

“You do know that this is for the EA position?” Blaise asked as he took a closer look at Potter’s grades. Not stellar, but definitely good enough to place in in the top ten percent of his class. “I’m sure there are easier ways of achieving your goals.”

“But that’s the problem. I don’t want to get by on my name. It’s too easy for people to assume that it’s the reason for my success. It’s why I won’t work for the _Prophet_ or accept a more permanent arrangement with _The Quibbler_.”

“But we’re in the industries of fashion and publishing,” Blaise protested. “Our very success often depends on our connections.”

“I understand that,” Albus said, suddenly serious. “And I know it’s the reality of the world in large. But I want to work in New York, and I need to prove to everyone that I can do it. Myself included.”

“New York.”

“Yeah. I want to breathe in all that energy, all that excitement. To experience its humanity and vibrancy.”

“There’s humanity to be found in nearly every corner of the world, Albus. Not just New York.”

“Now you sound like my parents,” Albus said with a pout. “All right. I’ll admit that I might be romanticising things a bit. But Mum and Dad never gave my Uncle Charlie a hard time when he followed his dreams and took off for a dragon reserve in Romania. This is mine; I’m chasing my own dragons. They just happen to be on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“And the only way you’ll be able to show your family that you’re able to do so is by succeeding in a job where your name has nothing to do with it,” Blaise finished quietly. “And a near-impossible one at that.”

Albus nodded. “Exactly.”

Blaise leant forward. He placed Albus’ file back on the table, his interest piqued. “Have you any idea as to why the magazine was named _Porte-Cochere_?”

“Because it’s pretentious? Or because it was originally conceived as an architectural mag?” Albus coloured as Blaise’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, maybe that was a bit lame. Um…well, a porte-cochere is a gateway to a building that provides travellers protection from the elements. So I suppose it could be seen as a passage that provides your readers safe access to all the fashion insiders.”

“Well done,” Blaise said, surprised.

“It still doesn’t mean it’s not bloody pretentious,” Albus muttered as Blaise choked back a smile.

“ _Porte-Cochere_ was also the gateway to a new life for many of us who work here. As it could be for you.”

“That sounds promising,” Albus said, his eyes gleaming.

“It’s more than a promise. It’s also a warning.”

“As in, how much it means to everyone involved?”

“As in ‘Don’t fuck things up.’” Blaise sat back and steepled his fingers, gazing at Albus thoughtfully. “ _If_ we were to offer you the position, do you know who you’d be working for?”

“Of course.”

“And you wouldn’t consider that a problem? Given your friendship with Scorpius, or your family’s history with Mr Malfoy?”

“I’m confident that my friendship with Scorpius will have no influence on his father. Our previous interactions could hardly be considered familiar. He was rarely at home when I visited Scorpius at the Manor, and aside from the attending several Quidditch matches in school—which was over five years ago—there’s been no reason for us to be in each other’s company.”

“And what of his feelings towards your father, and vice versa?” Blaise asked, arching his brow. “Surely, you must know they’ve had a contentious past.”

There was a pause. “Then what better way to convince my parents that I can truly succeed on my own?” When Blaise remained quiet, Albus adopted a pleading tone. “Please, Mr Zabini. I can do this job. I’m qualified. I’m hard-working. And with regards to my father, we’re two totally different people.”

 _I know that, but does Draco?_ Blaise thought hard; the hour was growing late, and there was no better option.

“You’re hired,” he decided. “See Daphne on your way out. She’ll help you with your paperwork and obtain your security clearance. Be here tomorrow at half past eight. Preferably wearing something with less holes.”

“You’ve got it, Mr Zabini,” Albus said, shaking his hand excitedly. “Thanks so much; you won’t regret this!”

Blaise watched Albus saunter out of his office with the exuberance of an overgrown puppy. He owled his liaison at the club, reserving a bottle of Guigal La Landonne Cote-Rotie 2013 and their best table, and a private room for after. Salazar knows, he deserved it.


	2. The Trickle-Up Trend (Albus)

“Hold it, please!” Albus shoved his badge into his rucksack, barely making it through the lift’s gates. How was he supposed to know that the blasted Floo network would be at a near standstill? First day on the job, and he was already late. “Bloody Fuck.” He raised a hand to his head, trying unsuccessfully to tame his messy locks.

“Leave it,” said a voice from the corner. “Choppy and textured for medium-length hair is very in vogue.” He smiled at Albus and gestured towards the elevator panel. “Which floor?”

“Uh; the twentieth, please.”

The man did a double-take. “Are you the new EA?” He waved as Albus nodded. “Terence Higgs. I’m the fashion director of _Porte-Cochere_ and in charge of the wonder that is ‘The Closet.”

“Nice to meet you, Terence. I’m Albus.” Albus cocked his head. “What’s ‘The Closet?’”

“It’s where we stock the best of the hottest labels, along with the designs of a few, select up-and-comers. It houses the clothes and accessories that we use to create our award-winning editorials.” Terence smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “The running joke is that I’m the only straight wizard who’s ever entered the closet at _Porte-Cochere,_ and chosen to stay in it.”

Albus laughed. “Well, I’ve never been in the closet. Sartorially or metaphorically speaking.”

“Out and proud?” Terence asked as Albus grinned. “Fabulous. If only everyone had the confidence and freedom to be with the person they love. Ahhh, and here we are.” The doors slid open with a _whoosh,_ revealing a wall of windows with the expanse of the London skyline behind them.

“Where the bloody fuck have you been? First day on the job, and you’re running late.” Albus’ reply was cut short as he was overtaken an exasperated Blaise Zabini. Blaise handed him a brown tray with a large, hot beverage and something cradled within a paper wrapper.

“What is this?” Albus took a deep breath; it smelled delicious.

“It’s Mr Malfoy’s lifeline, and the thing that could mean the difference between surviving another day, or your ignominious exit. I’m only going to say this once, so I hope you have a self-inking Quill, a Pensieve, or an iron-clad memory. Every morning, without fail, you will be waiting with a six-shot ristretto, bone dry, with one sugar and extra whip. You will also have, at the ready, a cinnamon bun from Nordic Bakery. Now, if Mr Malfoy happens to wear a suit jacket with a side vent or a lower button stance, or if he’s in a long jacket or pinstripes, you will avoid handing him that roll at all costs. You will allow him ten minutes to finish his breakfast and sort through his mail unless called. If you happen to hear any Mahler or Wagner playing in the background, you would be wise to extend that period to twenty.”

“Is that all?” remarked Albus faintly.

“Oh, no. That’s just the start. Hope you’re quick on your feet, Mr Potter, because he’s on his way up.”

The secretary whom he had met yesterday— _Daphne,_ was it?—ran into the entrance, hopping on one foot as she replaced a pair of trainers with some red slingbacks.

“Less than one minute! He’s just entered the second lift!”

The office erupted in a frenzy, the sounds of idle gossip replaced by those of scratching quills and Floo connections flaring to life.

Terence gave Albus a reassuring pat on the back. “Keep a stiff upper lip. I’ll see you later. Hopefully.”

The atmosphere thrummed with a tension that was both thrilling and terrifying. Albus held his breath. He fought the urge to turn as he heard the tell of the lift’s opening doors, but lost the battle once the sound of a well-soled shoe drew near.

 _Merlin._ Albus gripped the edges of the cardboard tray, nearly dropping it in his shock. Scorpius’ dad was _fit._ As in aggressively lean, sinfully powerful, bend-me-over-and-do-me-right-now, fit. He swallowed; how the fuck was he going to get through the day when all he could do was think about what lay under those trousers?

“Good morning, Draco.” Blaise cleared his throat, regaining Albus’ attention. “I’d like you to meet your new EA: Albus Potter.”

Draco gave a nearly imperceptible start. He looked at Blaise, his displeasure evident.

Albus felt the heat rising along his neck. “Al’s fine as well. At least, that’s what my family and friends call me.”

Draco peered at Albus over the rims of his very expensive-looking aviators. “Of which I am neither.”

Albus’ flush deepened. He held the tray forward and stubbornly lifted his eyes to meet Draco’s. “Your breakfast, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco sniffed. He strode over to his office doors, his graceful hands casting a series of complicated spells as he undid their wards.

When he looked back, his grey eyes were inscrutable.

“I’d like to see you now, Mr Potter,” he drawled. “Bring my breakfast along, and shut the door behind you.”

**.~xOx~.**

Albus sat, trying not to fidget. It might have been five minutes, but the excruciating silence made it seem like _forever._

Draco’s lips were pulled down into a frown, his lips moving silently as he read through his mail and finished the last of his roll. Suddenly, the tip of his tongue darted out and swiped at the corner of his mouth. The gesture seemed almost childlike and carefree, and totally not in keeping with the rest of his stern expression.

Albus shifted as he envisioned that pink tongue swiping at something else. _Great,_ he groaned inwardly. _First day on the job, and all I can think about is shagging the boss._

He looked around the office in an effort to distract himself. The walls were decorated with paintings drawn by famous Muggle artists, industry awards, and photo-ops of Draco with celebrities from the worlds of fashion, music, and sport. Draco’s desk was devoid of any personal effects, but a corner bookshelf held a photograph of Scorpius and a woman who looked like she could be Draco’s mother.

Aside from that one picture, there was nothing else that hinted at a personal life outside of _Porte-Cochere’s_ walls. It was so different from his dad’s office in the Ministry, crammed with photos of family and friends. Albus wondered who, if anyone, was waiting for Draco when he got home? Did he have someone with whom to share his meals, or trade stories, or warm his bed? He probably slept in the finest Italian sheets, the ones sporting an obscenely high thread count that felt like satin against skin.

Albus nearly groaned out loud at the thought. _Good going, knob head._ Now he was going to be preoccupied with images of Scorp’s dad starkers, in bed.

“Mr Potter.” The sharpness of Draco’s voice caused Albus to start. “Do you happen to have an ocular malady that I’m not aware of?”

“Um...no? I mean, I don’t wear glasses like my Dad, if that’s what you’re asking—”

“Have I spilt coffee on my shirt, or perhaps dripped honey on my jacket?”

 _Draco in honey…_ Albus looked at Draco’s clothes; they were impeccable, both in fit, and appearance. “No, Mr Malfoy,” he said, kicking himself. “They’re quite spotless.”

“Or is it that you’re simply _bored_?”

 _Oh_. “No, sir,” Albus squeaked. “Not bored at all.”

“Then perhaps you’d best remember that you’ve been hired to serve me, and not to stare at the bloody walls.” He flicked his wand, Vanishing the remnants of his breakfast while a folder floated lazily towards them. He looked at the page on top, then handed it to Albus. “How familiar are you with Tattler and Tate?”

Albus breathed a sigh of relief as he settled on more familiar ground. “Well enough to know that they're the biggest advertising firm in all of Wizarding London.”

Draco glared. “They certainly won’t be when I’m through with them. Effective now, I want you to direct their calls in the following manner: ‘Ms Greengrass is busy filing her nails, may I take a message?’ Or, ‘Barring four extremely flexible, Italian twinks, Mr Zabini has no interest in anything you might have to offer.’ Or _'Porte-Cochere_ refuses to deal with someone whose business instincts are as fallible as last year’s celebrity fashions.’” He looked up from his rant to find Albus staring, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Am I going too fast for you, Mr Potter?”

“No. I—” Albus frowned. “Answering calls. Isn’t that Daphne’s job?”

Draco gave him a thin smile. “Too lowly for you?”

“I just that...um, I mean, as your EA, I thought that I’d be writing, or helping to put the copy together.”

“And your assumption—so eloquently stated—is incorrect. Here at _Porte-Cochere_ , everyone contributes, and there are _no_ unimportant positions.” Draco smirked. “Even for a Potter.”

Albus took a deep breath; he refused to bollocks things up before they even had a chance to start. “Of course, sir. And with regards to Tattler and Tate. What should I say, if they were to ask for you?”

Draco’s eyes were a cold, steely grey. “Then you can let them know that I wouldn’t waste my spit on Horace Tattler if he were on fire, and I were the last person on earth.”

**.~xOx~.**

Albus peered at the leafy mess that sat on his plate with suspicion.

“Thought they served food around here,” he grumbled, his fork slipping off something beige and round and hard. “There’s a reason why we have incisors.”

Gemma Davies, one of the fashion stylists who worked with Terence, gave Albus a sympathetic look. “At least it’s edible. The chef finally convinced Draco to allow three tablespoons of dressing per serving instead of two.” She nudged Albus’ plate closer. “Try it. Chickpeas and farro. Plenty of iron and protein in there.”

Albus sighed. “It won’t do me any good if I can’t stomach the stuff. Is there a Pret A Manger nearby?”

“Where _isn’t_ there a Pret A Manger?” Gemma laughed. “There’s also a Patty and Bun, if you’re craving something truly decadent.”

“Stop corrupting the new talent, Ms Davies,” Terence admonished. He put down his tray and slid into the empty seat next to Albus.

“Talent.” Albus let out an indelicate snort. “All I do is answer Mr Malfoy’s owls, or buy him breakfast.” He paused, momentarily distracted. “Merlin, I’d kill for that cinnamon roll he tossed away this morning.”

“Mmmm.” Gemma drooled. “Germ-infested carbs.”

Terence shook his head at them both. “The metabolism of youth. Come back to me in another five years, and tell me you don’t appreciate these tasty offerings.”

“But Terence,” Albus protested, pointing at his sad plate. “If given the choice? Besides, shouldn't he be setting an example?”

“You do as Draco says, not as he does. Anyway, the man burns off every calorie that he consumes. If he’s not in some late night meeting, or travelling around the world—”

“Or having someone’s head—” Gemma grinned.

“—then he’s likely to be out casting spells for target practice, or flying on his broom,” Terence finished. “It’s enough to make your head spin.”

“If you haven't figured it out already, Albie, Draco is the personification of ‘all work and no play.”

“Of course, it gets a thousand times worse during that time of the month.”

Albus stared at Terence. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Draco gets a formal breakdown of the operations at the end of each month. All sources of revenue, pitted against salaries, expenses, and bonuses.” Terence coughed. “It can be a bit touch and go. Better make sure that anything he asks of you, is completed to perfection.”

Gemma sighed. “With everything that’s been going on this week, Draco needs his cinnamon roll more than ever.”

Albus thought about his first meeting with Draco. “Does this have anything to do with Tattler and Tate?”

Terence looked around. “Hush. Around here, they’re _personae non grata_.”

“But aren’t they responsible for _Porte-Cochere’s_ advertising and marketing?”

“They _were._ That is, until Delphini Riddle got a hold of Tattler’s dangly-bits, and his loyalty to the mag along with it.”

“Delphini was Draco’s former EA,” Gemma explained upon seeing Albus’ confused look. “She was let go after Draco caught her trying to solicit business from one of our biggest clients. If you think Draco with a quarter-stone weight gain is bad, wait until you see what he’s like when crossed. Disloyalty is something that he won’t ever tolerate, and he let Delphini go in the most dramatic fashion.”

“When Draco gets wound up, he can definitely put the ‘drama’ in ‘queen,’” Terence chuckled. “Although Delphini may very well have had the last laugh. Tattler’s upped his fees to three times the going rate, and has threatened to decrease _Porte-Cochere’s_ exposure.”

“The timing couldn’t be worse,” Gemma groaned.

Albus shovelled a leafy green in his mouth, chasing the blandness with a large gulp of gillywater. “Why’s that?”

Gemma’s jaw dropped. “It’s the end of April, Albie. September’s right around the corner.”

“What’s going on in September?”

“Please tell me he didn’t just ask that, Gemma,” Terence begged, his eyes rolling.

“Wow,” Gemma winced. “I can understand you not knowing the rest, but…”

“September is the biggest month of the year in our industry,” Terence said, bailing Albus out. “There are Fashion Weeks in Milan, Paris, London, and New York. Designers release their lookbooks in September—”

“Lookbooks help convey the aesthetic of a particular brand,” Gemma clarified.

“And September’s the month where the biggest trends for the fall and winter are showcased. For magazines, it’s the issue that generates the greatest amount of advertising revenue.”

Albus separated the farro, tucking it to the side. “So by reducing the visibility of the brand, Tattler’s aiming to hurt Draco financially?”

“It’s not just the impact the move will have on _Porte-Cochere’s_ coffers,” Terence said. “The magazine is Draco’s image; his life. The insult is intensely personal.”

“How is the magazine currently being marketed? I mean, before all this—” Albus waved his hand, “—happened?”

Terence shrugged. “Same like everybody else. Advertisements in the _Prophet,_ or on the WWN. Sometimes we’ll put out a spurious article; we’ll tease Fall’s biggest trend, for instance, and reference our own experts and the magazine. We pay for positions of visibility in Flourish and Blotts; create banners; and give free copies to St Mungo’s so they can stock their waiting rooms.”

“And the fashion you cover is strictly wizarding?”

“Thank Morgana, no,” Gemma remarked. “Fashion nowadays a mixture of wizard and Muggle. The goal is to capture the interest of the financially liquid, but progressive, crowd.”

“So why doesn’t your advertising reflect that?”

“We have some of the most innovative and award-winning advertisements out there,” Terence said, frowning. “Blaise and his team makes sure of that. And they have the accolades to prove it.”

“But it doesn’t sound like that creativity has trickled down to your methods of distribution. Relying on traditional media like the wireless or owl post will only get you a small part of the market. Plus, you’re hooking the wrong demographic. If you’re aiming for the younger consumer—”

“Younger, _paying_ consumer.”

“—you’ll need to expand your visibility in a place where your target audience will take notice.” Albus leaned back, ticking off several examples on his fingers. “A Quidditch WAG greets her partner as they step off the plane, the latest issue in hand. One of the Weird Sisters, having tea in an outdoor cafe, thumbing through the mag. Scorpius Malfoy, leaving the offices of _Porte-Cochere,_ with —”

“Hard stop right there. Draco would never allow his family to be used for publicity. You, of all people, should know that.”

“Point,” Albus conceded, his cheeks colouring. “Still. Strategic product placement with the proper people in the proper places can do wonders for visibility and re-branding. It sure beats sitting around a stack of year-old mags at the Healer’s office.”

Gemma cocked her head. “You know, you might be onto something. You should run this by Blaise.”

“Those aren’t the only possibilities,” Albus said excitedly. He took another bite of his salad; it was more palatable the third time around, especially with his adrenaline pumping. “I worked for a Muggle newspaper one summer. The way they disseminate information is so immediate. Even though a lot of _how_ they’re doing it is based on Muggle technology, I think we could make it work. Lots of my friends are doing things in non-wizarding venues: taking the Tube; going to Muggle clubs; using mobiles. There might be a way to promote _Porte-Cochere_ in these settings, especially if the clothing and products aren’t overtly wizarding.”

Terence furrowed his brow. “Sounds like it’s going to take a lot of work.”

“Maybe up front. But think about it—we’d be the only wizarding mag out there doing this. Zero competition.”

Albus finished the rest of his low-cal salad as Gemma and Terence watched him with interest.

**.~xOx~.**

“Sounds like it’s going to take a lot of work.”

Albus shifted under Blaise’s appraisal. He had been thinking about his pitch for the past week. “Initially, yes. You would definitely need to re-evaluate _Porte-Cochere’s_ image, since that would factor into how you approached your marketing.”

Blaise frowned. “That decision would ultimately lie with Draco. No matter how innovative you think your ideas are, if Draco is set on holding fast to tradition, you’ll have to market around that.”

“Even if that image is more suited for people in their...” Albus’ voice trailed. “That is to say, even if it’s missing out on an important demographic?”

“Draco _is_ _Port-Cochere._ If you change it so that it’s unrecognisable, then he will have lost himself in the process.”

“Mr Malfoy’s got too strong of a voice and point of view. I can’t imagine that it would cease to come through.” Albus paused. “He just needs a different way to get that voice across.”

Blaise raised a well-groomed brow. “And you’re the one to do it?”

“Well, no,” Albus replied, blushing fiercely. “I’m just a writer. But I definitely have some ideas, and I can point you in the direction of people who can make them happen.”

Blaise sighed. “We’ve been doing well with what we have.”

Albus thought back to his conversations with Terence over the past week. “Last month’s subscriptions were down eight-and-a-half percent from the same time last year. Readers from ten years ago have moved on to parenting or business journals, while you compete for the attentions of your younger subscribers with the sporting and music rags. And now, Tattler’s holding you hostage with his inequitable demands.”

“You’ve familiarised yourself with the office gossip, I see.”

“It’s unavoidable. The chin-wagglers around here would give Skeeter a run for her money. But in this case, the information was beneficial.” Albus leant in with a conspiratorial grin. “How do you think Draco would feel if we beat Tattler at his own game?”

Blaise stood, his tawny eyes gleaming with interest. “That might be your strongest argument yet.” He came around his desk, striking a pose that was anything but casual. “I wonder, Albus. Why all the interest? From someone who has no desire to make a name for himself in the fashion industry, and treats this as a jumping-off point to a ‘real’ job?”

Albus thought carefully. He pushed aside his first answer, settling for the more obvious. “I want to write in New York,” he said, clearing his throat. “That means working for the best fashion magazine in the industry. Not the second.”

“Hmmm.” Blaise walked over to the far wall, where a large water feature cascaded against a roughened stone backdrop. He threw a small amount of powder into the watery trough, which was soon followed by Daphne’s visage.

“Blaise. Oh, hello, Albus.” Daphne grinned at Albus’ gobsmacked expression. “You didn’t think Draco would be satisfied with something as mundane as a traditional Floo network, did you?”

“A stone hearth does ruin the modern aesthetic. Daphne, I need you to get a message to Draco.” Blaise drew closer, his words muted. Daphne glanced at Albus, gave Blaise a quick nod, then disappeared.

She reappeared less than a minute later. “He’s got tickets to Eugene Onegin at the Royal Opera House at half past seven.”

Blaise looked down at his Audemars. “It’s nearly five. He’ll be heading to the Rosewood Hotel, then?”

“Yes. Dining at the Greenhouse, not the Holborn. If Albus would like to discuss the matter further, he’s to meet Draco at six sharp. He’s already running on a tight schedule.”

Blaise looked over his shoulder. “Think you can make it in time, Potter?”

There was an Apparition point one block away at the London School of Economics. “Yeah.” Albus bit his lower lip. “I’ll need to exchange my Galleons for Muggle currency first, though.”

Blaise sniffed. “Don’t be daft. You’re meeting Draco for business; he’ll expense it. If you’re going to do anything at all, you should exchange those ghastly clothes for something more fitting.”

 _Fuck._ Albus was supposed to meet James and his friends later tonight. “Is it dressy?” he asked. He could only imagine their laughter if he showed up at the club wearing a suit jacket like some toff.

“Not especially. But you are to be Draco’s guest, and a representative of the company. You wouldn’t want to do anything to sully that image.” He eyed Albus up and down, then turned back to Daphne. “Maybe there’s something in The Closet.”

Daphne shook her head. “Terence and Gemma have already left for the day. I’d help, but I have plans for tonight.” She smirked, spreading her hands apart. “Big ones.”

“As do I, my dear. Sorry, young Potter, it looks like you’ll have to find something suitable on your own.” Blaise bent forward towards the fancy Floo. Albus caught the words _‘apple’_ and _‘tree’_ as Daphne tittered.

**.~xOx~.**

Albus pulled at the cuffs of his shirt as he ran up to the podium.

“Um… I’m supposed to be meeting someone here? The reservation should be under Malfoy. Six o’clock.”

The host gave Albus a judgmental glance, somehow managing to make it appreciative, yet condescending. “Mr Malfoy has already been seated. If you would follow me, please.”

Albus tried not to roll his eyes at the slight as they walked towards a secluded corner of the courtyard. His irritation soon dissipated, however, at the pastoral scene. The sounds of the busy city were filtered through the curtain of hanging foliage, the white linens covering the table tops dappled with sunlight.

“Your party, Mr Malfoy,” their host announced, pulling out a chair for Albus.

Draco looked up. His suit was elegant—less severe than the ones he typically wore to the office, but no less commanding, with its clean lines and slight sheen.

“Albus.” Draco stared, his eyes darkening as they lingered on Albus’ flushed cheeks. “A Quest for me, and a Sanguinello for the young gentleman, Edgar. And a bit of privacy, if you please.”

Edgar’s face fell at the dismissal in Draco’s tone. “Right away, sir,” he said stiffly,

Draco waved a hand at the empty chair. “Sit, Albus. I’ve less than an hour, and I’ve no intention of working the rest of the night on an empty stomach.”

Albus sat, a bit ungracefully at that. “I thought… Mr Zabini mentioned you were going to the opera, sir.”

“Yes. For work. There are plenty of connections to be made, deals to be had. Feathers to ruffle.” He stared at Albus’ shirt. Albus looked down; he was sure it was clean, but he could have missed a spot. “Speaking of business, you’re hardly dressed for it. Perhaps you’d do better at _Trolling Stone_ ; Van Wendel has a reputation for hiring a certain type of writer.” He reached over and fingered the end of Albus’ sleeve. The pad of his thumb brushed the inner part of Albus’ wrist as he gave the hem an expert flick, straightening it out perfectly.

Albus felt his face flame as Draco removed his hand. He was aware that his jeans were practically painted on, his trainers just this side of ratty. His button-down was no better; while he was still in great shape, his Quidditch-playing days were now over, and his lean, Seeker’s form had filled out into something more muscular.

“I’m sorry, Mr Malfoy. It was the best I could do on such short notice.”

A waiter returned with their drinks. “Do remember, Albus, that as long as you’re in my employ, you are a reflection of me.” Draco picked up his glass, his lips pursing over the rim as he sipped, then swallowed. “All of the people who work at _Porte-Cochere_ are identifiable with the brand. But you, given your role, even more so.”

Albus tore his eyes from the long line of Draco’s throat. “That’s actually what I wanted to speak to you about. A new marketing strategy. A re-branding, of sorts.”

Draco put down his glass. He sat forward, his body taut. “I’ve been informed. I must say, it’s not often that I’ll indulge a new member of my staff, not to mention someone so green. But Terence and Blaise both believe that your idea has merit.”

Albus nodded. “It could make a huge difference in your circulation. Be great for business.” He thought back to what had sparked Blaise’s interest. “And exact revenge on Tattler in the process.”

Draco’s lips pulled into a smile. His teeth were sharp and white, his gaze predatory. “How very Slytherin of you, Mr Potter. I’m all ears.”

Albus couldn’t help it. His eyes flicked to Draco’s ears; he stared at the way they sat against the swan-like curve of Draco’s neck, that white-blond hair curling just beneath the lobe. “Erm…” he started, as Draco’s lips curled into a smirk. Albus tensed; his dad had complained enough about Draco’s insults while growing up that he knew what that look had meant. “There’s no question that you’ve turned _Porte-Cochere_ into one of the most respected fashion magazines in the world. It’s one of the reasons why I’d wanted this job. But the things that appealed to your audience even five years ago, don’t hold their weight today. In order to capture a whole new subsect of readers, you’ll have to adjust your approach.

Draco’s smugness dissolved into a frown. “I’m not revamping the entire magazine.”

“You wouldn’t need to. I know my cousins gravitate towards _Porte-Cochere_ when it’s available. But that’s the problem; unless it’s sitting around in the library, or a waiting room, or in a coffee shop, they’re not going out of their way to buy it. They’re looking for something that can be accessed immediately. Something they can reference quickly for inspiration, whether it’s for a date, or a dance, or work.”

Draco looked doubtful. “And how do you propose to do this?”

“The fashions you feature are a blend of Muggle and wizard. Ever since the end of the War, the two worlds are even more connected. We were taught Muggle studies in Hogwarts—real Muggle studies, where we spent several weeks immersed in their world. Scorpius and I may have been one of the first kids to have a Muggle cellular, but almost everyone has one nowadays.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, his fingers flying over the screen.

“I’m well familiar with what a mobile is,” Draco said, his frown growing deeper. “I’ve seen the pictures Scorpius takes from his trips. There’s a difference between looking at something backlit by a blue-white Lumos, and the solidity of a mag. It’s the ability to linger, and turn the page. Surely, as a writer, you must appreciate that. Is there anything better than the smell of a leather-bound book, its pages worn smooth and yellow, and the heft of it in your hand?” His voice dropped, low and smooth, and Albus shivered at the fondness in his tone.

“No doubt,” Albus agreed. “But one doesn’t have to replace the other. Think of it as a symbiotic relationship.”

Draco took a careful sip of his gin. “Parasitism is a form of symbiosis.”

Albus coloured. “Mutualism, then.”

One of the waiters stopped by with their menus. Albus shook his head. “Nothing for me, thanks.”

“Nonsense,” Draco said, waving off his own menu. “I’ll have the courgette and dandelion salad, and the Dover sole.” He looked at Albus appraisingly. “And a beef burger and truffle fries for the young man. Bring all the dishes at once. I’m in a bit pressed for time.”

“Right away, sir.”

“Oh,” Albus’ stomach growled as the waiter hurried away. “That actually sounds good.”

A smile softened the chiseled lines of Draco’s face. “My job is to read people. I’ve become quite good at it. Even without the use of Legilimency.” Albus must have looked stricken, because Draco scoffed. “It’s a joke, Albus. What is _not_ a joke is my comment about the parasitic nature of what you’re proposing. I will not be giving away our creative efforts for free.”

“It wouldn’t be for free. Or at least, not the majority of it.” Albus amended, pulling up a website. “Here’s something from the newspaper I interned at one summer. They put out several timely articles each day. Access to the entire paper is either free to their regular subscribers, or can be purchased as a digital subscription only.”

Draco moved his chair closer as he peered at Albus’ screen. “There’s another problem with your proposal,” he murmured as he clicked through several pages. Albus tried not to breathe in too deeply; the heady notes of spice and bergamot were already doing dizzying things to his brain. “Your newspaper focused solely on Muggle news. Ours covers both Muggle and wizarding styles. We can limit its distribution in hard copy, but placing it in a setting where we can’t control access, especially to wizarding information and advertisers, is going to stop your idea before it starts.”

“There are ways around that, too,” Albus argued. He glanced up to see Draco staring at him intently, his grey eyes smoky and dark. “We could establish a wizarding-only site whose address is not accessible to the non-magical world.

“We could also develop a site that’s curated towards Muggles, with Muggle-favourable fashion and articles. Someone like Gemma Davies could be its frontwoman, posting relevant commentary on the daily. Become what the Muggles call a ‘fashion blogger.’”

Draco raised a quizzical brow. “And people would follow the site based on the popularity of this...blogger?”

“Definitely. Some of them make a pretty Galleon doing it. A critique from one of the top ones can make or break a company.”

“It seems a bit tawdry. Pandering like that.”

“No more than the designer who creates a robe for my Dad. You should see what happens each season when the Ministry Ball comes around...” Albus’ voice trailed as Draco’s lips thinned. “It’s not just my dad,” he added quickly. “Quidditch players; rock stars; actors. Celebrity endorsements sway public opinion, like it or not.”

“Your father never could escape the limelight.” Draco sat back, letting out a long sigh as he handed Albus his phone. “Change is inevitable. It would be nice to be out front and leading it, for a change.” A flash of determination lit up his gaze. “Blaise mentioned that you know people who can help us with its development and implementation?”

“I do,” Albus answered eagerly. “Maybe not for every single area, but they can certainly put us in touch with the right ones.”

Draco took another sip of his drink, appearing to mull things over. “I’ll be away this weekend, but I’d like for you to meet with Blaise and our marketing department. And get Gemma in there with you.” Their waiter came over with their dishes. Draco started on his salad, spearing a dandelion leaf and a piece of the courgette with his fork. “You’ll report to me when I get back. Tattler and the rest won’t know what hit them.” He paused, his eyes hooded. “Good job, Albus.”

Albus smiled, his chest warming at the rare praise. He picked up his burger, grimacing as the savoury juices ran onto his lips, turning his mouth a glistening red. He blotted the mess hastily with his napkin, hoping Draco wouldn’t notice as he looked up with a guilty flush.

But Draco _had_ been watching, and the look he gave Albus at that moment was positively ravenous.


	3. High/Low (Draco, Albus)

“Not now, Daphne.”

“You know if it were anyone else, I’d tell them you were busy, Draco. But my darling sister has the uncanny ability to see through us both.”

Draco drew his lips into a pout. Even decades later, the downward tilt was incredibly effective. “I’m _always_ busy.”

“Yes, darling.” Daphne patted his arm. “The busiest.” She laughed as Draco’s pout deepened. “Come now. That look has _never_ worked on me. Next time, try it on someone who’s actually interested.”

Draco sighed. “Astoria won’t take no for an answer, will she?”

Daphne shook her head. “Not a chance. And she’s about to take a Portkey to Monte Carlo, so I suggest you hurry things along. In case she turns...irritable.”

“She’s going on holiday to Côte d'Azur. What’s there to be irritable about?” Draco grumbled as he made his way to his private Floo. He bent down and threw a handful of powder into the trough, the flames parting in a cascade of green and blue. “Astoria?”

A pair of shapely legs outfitted in winged, Zanotti stilettos materialised inches from his face. “No need to shout, darling.” Astoria’s delicate features came into view as Draco looked up. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you on your knees. The memories.”

“I’ve got a meeting with the new staff in fifteen minutes, and I hear you’ve a Portkey to catch. I’m sure we both have better things to do than to reminisce about things that are better left in the past.” Draco’s smile sharpened. “By the way, if you’re going to be spending the next several weeks on the beach, I’d suggest switching your lip colour from matte to sheer. It’s more forgiving.”

“Less beach, and more casino, I think. And there’s no need to get tetchy. Don’t forget who taught you everything you know about lipstick to begin with.”

Draco smirked. “Did you Floo-call for the express purpose of needling me, or to loosen my purse strings?”

Astoria laughed, genuinely at that. “Don’t be silly, Draco. I’m independently wealthy.”

“Ahh. So I take it your divorce was finalised?”

“Independent once more, as of three hours ago.”

“Thus, the holiday.” Draco gave her a look that was almost admiring. “Careful, Astoria, or you’ll soon be surpassing Blaise’s mother in the ex department.”

“Pish posh. And you can’t count ours; it was destined to fail from the start. Given your fondness for cock.”

“An affection matched only by yours.”

Astoria’s expression softened. “If only you were straight and I believed in monogamy.”

“Well, we did end up with an amazing son in the process.”

“Which reminds me. The reason I’d called.” Astoria looked at her watch hastily. “Scorpius is bringing his girlfriend to visit. I do believe they are quite serious. Who would have thought? A Malfoy and a Granger-Weasley.”

Draco glared. “I’m blaming this solely on you. For filling his head with all that fairy tale nonsense when he was but a babe.”

“Have you no sense of romance, Draco?”

“I believe the circumstances surrounding our marriage speaks for itself. An heir. Preservation of the Malfoy name, and completion of my familial duty. For whatever it’s worth.”

“Scorpius is the light of your life, and you know it. And your name is worth quite a bit nowadays, despite your father’s attempts to ruin it.” She paused. “Speaking of which, I heard that you’re working with Albus Potter. Such a handsome, delightful boy.”

“Careful, Astoria. He’s much too young for you.”

“Mayrin Gardner-Blewett-Burchell-Miller-Fairclough’s current beau is twenty-eight. And I’ve never seen her happier. Besides, there’s no harm in _looking,_ darling. It’s just a shame that his preferences, like yours and mine, run towards the male persuasion.”

Draco sucked in his breath. “You know this for a fact?”

“Oh, yes. He had quite the spectacular breakup with Oliver Wood’s boy several months ago. It was splashed all over the society pages.” She gave him a quizzical glance. “Where were you?”

“I try not to occupy myself with anything the media deems newsworthy when it comes to that family.”

“Draco.” Astoria adopted a stern tone. “You’re not treating Albus poorly, are you?”

“No. In fact…” Draco thought over the events of the last month. Albus had been a nice surprise—intelligent, hardworking, and innovative. He had fit in with the rest of Draco’s staff like he’d always belonged. And it didn’t hurt that he was undeniably attractive, with his coltish body, wide mouth, and earnest expression. “It’s working out incredibly well.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You might be seeing him more often than not, given the way things are progressing between Scorpius and Rose.” Astoria made a moue as the alarm on her watch chimed. “At any rate, we’ll be staying at the flat at Monaco-Ville. I'm extending an invitation for you to join us. Just imagine—one big, happy family.”

“As lovely as that sounds, I can’t. We’ve been working on a launch for our digital edition. I’m networking with some investors tonight.”

Astoria sighed. “When are you _not_ working, Draco? I can’t remember you interacting with anyone who wasn’t family or an employee since Simon. And that was three years ago.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I had lovely ‘relations’ just the other night.”

Astoria’s voice filled with something suspiciously like pity. “I don’t mean one of your one-offs. It may sound hypocritical coming from me, but you should seriously think about settling down. You’ve always craved security and stability. But your fear of getting hurt is preventing that from happening.” Her blue eyes were pleading. “It’s been over twenty-five years, Draco. Don’t you think—”

Draco clenched his fists. “That discussion’s off limits, Astoria, and you know it.”

“Fine.” She thrust out her chin defiantly. “But ask yourself this: in another five or ten years, will you be happy when all you have is the success of the magazine, and no one to share it with?"

“I thought you had a Portkey to catch?”

Astoria sighed. “Sometimes, Draco, you’re so transparent to everyone but yourself. If you change your mind, you’ll know where to find us.”

**.~xOx~.**

“Settling down.” Draco snorted as he strode down the hallways. “Of all the ridiculous twaddle.”

An irritation bubbled up underneath his skin. He had tried—and failed, quite spectacularly—to settle down with Astoria herself. Scorpius might be leaning in that direction, if his current infatuation with Weasley's eldest was any indication. But that type of life wasn’t for Draco. It was reserved for people like his son, or Potter…

A loud crash interrupted his musings.

“Bloody hell,” Draco exploded. He ran towards the commotion, flinging open the door to The Closet.

“Terence?” Albus was standing in front of a mirror, his voice laced with frustration. “I can’t get this tie to work. See, you leave me for two minutes, and—” He turned around, his eyes widening upon seeing Draco.

Draco stared. Albus was clothed in a fresco wool jacket, the casual silhouette accentuating the lines of his waist and his hips in just the right manner. His arse was encased in a pair of jeans that should have been illegal, and his trainers had been switched out for a pair of dragonhide ankle boots that screamed decadence and danger.

Pink bloomed on Albus’ cheeks. He looked down, his hair falling forward in a way that drew attention to the angle of his jaw and those incredible peepers. “Sorry; I thought you were Terence. I’m supposed to be doing a photo shoot for the press kit before the reception tonight,” he said as he wrangled with his tie. “But it looks like I’m trying too hard.”

Draco stepped forward. “You wearing Zegna would be trying too hard. Officine Générale is young and hip. This is you, Albus. Just...with a tad more polish."

Albus held up the tie, its ends flopping wildly in protest. “This is all to pot, though. I can’t get the stripes to sit right, and the sheen is completely unforgiving.”

“Stop destroying the fabric,” Draco scolded. “The reasons you’ve listed are _why_ it’s the perfect choice. The metallic fibres and slim width are appropriately youthful, and the stripes add just the right amount of formality.” He plucked the tie from Albus’ hand. “Hold still. Your problem lies with your choice of a knot. A Petit Noeud is less forgiving, given the tie’s shape and pattern. A Pratt, on the other hand, would be perfect.”

Draco stood in front of Albus, directing Albus’ attention to the mirror once more. “This is the length you want,” he instructed, looping the tie around Albus’ neck and adjusting the ends. He flipped the wide length under, then across, his fingers briefly faltering. “It’ll give you a knot that’s not only smaller, but more symmetrical.”

His hand brushed against Albus’ chest as he continued to work. Finally, Draco gave two sharp tugs so that the knot lay flush at the base of Albus’ throat. “Perfect,” he declared. He lingered, the length of his fingers caught between the smooth silk of the tie and the cotton of Albus’ button-up.

“Thank you,” Albus whispered. He looked up. His eyes were hooded, and so fucking _green_ as he curled his hand around Draco’s.

“Albus…” Draco warned, his voice rough.

Albus made a small noise. He leant forward, his mouth lush, wet and slightly parted as his breath came out in tiny huffs.

Draco fought the urge to bury himself in Albus’ spicy scent, to nuzzle that hair, and that smooth, golden skin. He stepped back, trying to regain his bearings, but his shifting vantage point now revealed an Albus whose eyes were glazed, his face flushed, the outline of his erection clearly visible. Merlin, the boy was practically _begging_ to be taken against the wall and fucked...

The sound of approaching footsteps caused them both to whirl around. “Sorry I took so long,” Terence announced. “Couldn’t decide on Gemma’s shoes. Sometimes, even a pair of £1000 stilettos crosses the line of classy into trashy.” He turned towards Draco. “Hey, boss. Our EA cleans up well, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. Very well, indeed,” Draco agreed, his words heated.

“Just fabulous.” Terence cast a straightening charm on the hem of Albus’ jacket. “With your looks and personality, you’ll be a hit with the younger crowd. PR’s coming in five minutes to bring you and Gemma over to The Loft. And you won’t believe who they got to join you.”

“Who?” Draco demanded.

“Alex Nilsson.” Terence made an exasperated sound at Albus' blank stare. “Alex Nilsson—a shoe-in for Model of the Year, and the ‘It’ guy of the moment. Blaise has been after him to do a promotional campaign for us for ages, but it was only after he heard that you would be there, Albus, that he agreed.”

“Me?” Albus asked, surprised.

“Yes.” Terence waggled his brows. “Apparently, he’s quite the fan.”

Draco’s nostrils flared. “Actually, it’s not Blaise, but I who have the final say. And I say ‘no’ to the use of models, especially some upstart, flavour-of-the-moment. What we need is an icon. Someone with staying power.”

Terence held up his hands. “I’m just the fashion director; I’ll work with whomever. But the stylists are already on their way over to the set. If you’ve any other ideas of the launch, then you'll need to speak with Blaise, and quickly.”

**.~xOx~.**

Albus leant in, his ears straining as he struggled to hear his companion’s words above the thudding bass.

“The pictures came out great, Albus,” Dean Thomas shouted. “You’re a natural. The energy and the chemistry were fantastic. I couldn’t have hoped for a better shoot.”

Albus took another sip of his Firewhisky, its liquid already warming its way pleasantly through his belly. “Have to be honest; I’d always hoped to work with you one day. But I thought it’d be in back of the camera, not in front of it.” He took a look at all the fashion insiders milling about. Ostensibly, it was to pay homage to the House of Valentine, although he suspected it was more for the alcohol and adulation.

Deans smiled. “I don’t find it all that surprising. I wouldn’t have guessed it would be a photo shoot for _Porte-Cochere._ But I always thought you were destined for great things.”

Albus grimaced. “Because I’m a Potter?”

Dean laughed. “Precisely. But not for the reasons you think. You're so very much like your dad, Al. You wield your talent so naturally, it’s sometimes hard to remember that it’s quite extraordinary.”

“It’s flattering that you think so, Dean. But I’m not sure it’s true. I mean, James is out there playing Quidditch, and Lily’s off chasing dragons with Uncle Charlie. I’m just...me.”

“Don’t get me wrong; your brother and sister _are_ amazing. But you don’t need glitter with your greatness. When you write, it’s transportive. Your ideas flow out of you like your magic: as powerful when you’re quiet, as when you shout.”

Albus sighed. “It feels more like I’m whispering, nowadays. I’m working for a fashion rag. As an errand boy for Draco Malfoy, no less.”

Dean snorted. “Errand boys don’t land the cover of one of the most influential publications in the business, dressed in the most up-to-date fashions.”

The memories of Draco’s appreciative gaze, his hands gliding along the length of Albus’ tie as he set him to rights, made Albus shift uncomfortably.

Dean paused, frowning at Albus’ silence. “Are you unhappy?”

Albus shook his head. “I really like my co-workers. And being on this project’s been loads of fun. But it’s still not where my heart lies.”

“Why don’t you speak with Draco? He’s not a terrible sort.”

“I’m not sure I’ve earned the right to ask that of him yet. Besides, it’s not like I’m working for _The Guardian_.”

“Writing for a fashion magazine, especially one as reputable as _Porte-Cochere_ , is nothing to scoff at. Some of the most groundbreaking articles in recent years have been published in music, sporting, or even wank mags. And some of the most inane pieces of sensationalism have appeared in broadsheets such as the _Prophet_.” Guilt flashed across Dean’s face. “Don’t tell your mum I said that. Anyway, it’s _what_ you have to say, that’s as important as the medium itself.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Maybe I’ll ask Draco, after all.”

“Ask me what?”

Albus startled at the sexy drawl. There was a hint of whisky on Draco’s breath, and his eyes, usually so unflinching and cool, had warmed with the drink. A smile tilted at the corners of his lips, and Albus decided that as fit as Draco Malfoy was when he was in his element, with his hard lines and sharp edges, it was nothing compared to this.

“Um…” he stuttered, feeling a bit dazed. “We were just talking about the shoot.”

“Hi, Draco,” Dean said, sending Albus a strange look. “I think you’ll be pleased with the results. The shot of you exiting the carriage with Albus and Gemma by your sides is exactly the message your readers need. It’s classic _Porte-Cochere_ , with a modern twist. Just owl me with your decision once you’ve seen the proofs.”

“I will,” Draco replied. “I’m glad to hear it went well. Apparently, I still have a good idea or two.”

“As does Albus. In fact, he’s full of them.” Dean gave Albus an encouraging glance. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a beer somewhere with my name on it.” He bent over to give Albus a hug. “Don’t shortchange yourself, Al,” he whispered. “And don’t be afraid to ask for what you want.”

Albus felt his face flame as his mind went off in an entirely different direction upon hearing Dean’s well-meaning encouragement. “Ta,” he said as Dean sauntered off.

Draco watched Albus curiously. “The feedback I’ve received from the board has been extremely positive. I’d certainly like to hear any other ideas you might have.”

Albus sighed. “Honestly, that means a lot. But what I was really hoping to do was write”

Draco frowned. “Aren't you doing that already?”

“Editing Gemma’s list of the top five lip shades for summer wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Albus admitted.

“So lipstick’s out. What kind of piece were you thinking of?”

“I want to cut my teeth on something more substantial. I’m not asking to write an article on the history of fashion as political and social commentary, although I think that would make for a good read. But editing blurbs on the season’s best lip colour is not the way I envisioned my career going.”

“Hmm.” Draco swirled his whisky, the amber liquid painting the sides of his glass. “A story can be found just about anywhere. The colour of one’s lipstick, for instance, can communicate a lot about one’s mood and personality. It’s instrumental in formulating first impressions. A nude colour may convey warmth and reliability, while bright red screams creativity and ambition.” Draco moved closer. “I wonder, Albus. What colour are you?”

The spicy, woodsy smell of Draco’s cologne mixed dangerously with the Firewhisky in Albus’ system, heightening the buzz. “I’m reliable _and_ ambitious. So I’d say, a little of both.”

“I can attest to the former. That, and perhaps a touch of stubborness. You must be, to have lasted with me this long.” Draco laughed at Albus' dumbstruck expression. “I’m not deaf to the chin wagging that takes place where I’m concerned. Some of it’s true, some false. Some I let linger, to my advantage.” He leant back, his body assuming a speculative pose. “So that leaves us with ambition. Where do you see it taking you in the future?”

Albus took a deep breath. “It’s been my dream to be an investigative journalist. Hopefully for a well-established paper in New York.”

“Ahh. So _Porte-Cochere_ is a temporary thing.” Draco took another sip of whisky, this one larger than the first. “Tell me, Albus. How soon before I need to start looking for another EA?”

There was something else underlying Draco’s words. “I don’t have any intentions of leaving in the near future,” Albus replied honestly. “I like the people I work with, and I feel like I’m making a difference. But you asked me where my ambitions lie, so I told you the truth. What I can promise is that when the time comes for me to move on, you’ll be the first to know.”

“When. Not if,” Draco said pointedly. He looked at Albus thoughtfully. “It won’t be easy, you know.”

“So my parents tell me on the daily,” Albus snorted. “They think it’s a romantic ideal.”

Draco looked up in surprise. “I don’t think it’s necessarily romantic. There’s a nobility to writing, but it’s a career that few are successful in. I would tell Scorpius the same if he were to present the idea to me himself.”

Albus’ tone grew petulant. “I just want to make a difference. On my own merit.”

“But you already have. At least, for my projected profits,” Draco teased.

There it was again—the sensual uptick of Draco’s mouth, the lilt to his drawl, that made Albus’ insides flutter unsteadily. “I’ve also managed to convince Terence to join me at the chippy down the street,” he said cheekily.

“Two months in, and you’ve created a near-mutiny,” Draco murmured. “You do make a difference, Albus. Even in the everyday things. Just like the lipstick.”

Albus licked his lips. Draco’s gaze dropped, as if mesmerised by the movement.

“Perhaps there’s a place for your brand of journalism within _Porte-Cochere_ ,” he said quietly. “I’d like to continue this discussion once we’re back at the office, away from all these ears—”

“Malfoy?” A portly gentleman wearing an impeccably tailored suit shook Draco’s hand vigorously. “Quite the turnout,” he said with an unctuous smile.

A look of annoyance crossed Draco’s face. “Ah, Edwin. Enjoying yourself?”

“A bit of a bore. ‘Fashion retrospective,’ my foot. A decade ago, Jasper Valentine wouldn’t have bothered with the effort of thumbing his nose at the majority of these guests. It’s the last gasp of an old house that’s languishing for ideas and can’t keep up with the competition.” He gave a small, mean smile. “I guess desperation causes us to do things we wouldn’t normally. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Malfoy?”

“Sometimes, retrospection is exactly what we need,” Draco said thinly. “I take it you’re doing well? ”

“September looks to be our biggest issue yet.” He gave Draco a sly look. “Our marketing department’s been working night and day. In fact, our advertising rates have just gone up.” A look of horrified glee flitted across his face. “My apologies. I had quite forgot about your dust-up with Tattler. Terrible business,” he added, clicking his tongue.

“I’m sure that the news of Mr Tattler’s questionable business ethics must have devastated you. Given _A la Mode’s_ perpetual second-place ranking to _Porte-Cochere_.”

“I always welcome competition. It helps separate the wheat from the chaff. The men from the boys. Speaking of which…” Edwin gave Albus an inquisitive look. “They’re getting younger and younger, aren’t they, Malfoy? Although you look quite familiar, young man. Are you one of the models?”

“I don’t believe our paths would have crossed, sir,” Albus said evenly, “seeing as I prefer the company of those who’ve withstood adversity, and come out all the stronger for it.”

Draco moved closer. “This young gentleman is Albus, my EA. Albus, this is is Edwin Waterhouse, PR Manager for _A la Mode_.”

“Albus. The name is so familiar.” Edwin’s eyes narrowed predatorially. “Wait. You wouldn’t happen to be—?”

“Oh, look; I do believe they’ve finally brought out the Armand de Brignac. Valentine spared no expense, did he?” Draco steered Mr Waterhouse towards the bar where a sizeable crowd was already gathering. “I look forward to finishing our conversation, Albus.”

Albus screwed his eyes shut, breathing in a sigh of relief.

“Enjoy the anonymity where you can,” a masculine voice interrupted, filled with gentle amusement.

Albus opened his eyes and gawped. The man was gorgeous—with a strong jaw and chiseled cheeks, and eyes the colour of summer wheat.

“”I’m afraid you’ve got me at a disadvantage,” Albus admitted. “I’m Albus Potter. And apologies for my behaviour. I think I could take a bath in the River Teign, and still feel cleaner than that exchange left me."

“Alex Nilsson.” Alex shook Albus’ hand, friendliness radiating from every pore. “And no need to apologise. When it comes to Edwin Waterhouse, it’s a common sentiment, I assure you.”

Albus’ eyes widened in recognition. “Alex Nilsson. We were supposed to do the shoot together this afternoon, weren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Alex said ruefully. “Although I can’t complain; I got paid for it, regardless. Besides, one of the reasons I signed on was to meet you. So I’d consider this day a success.”

“Meet me?” Albus laughed wryly, disappointed that Alex was just interested in the Potter legacy. “You must be mistaken. I’m just an EA.”

“An EA who happened to write a thought-provoking piece that paved the way for creatures to have access to the same education granted to wizards.” He smiled at Albus’ shocked look. “You might say I’m a bit of a fan.”

“I wrote that article for _The Quibbler_ two years ago.” He looked at Alex curiously. There was an undeniable American twang. Eastern seaboard in origin, most likely. “It’s something that not many outside of special interest groups, or my immediate family, even know about.”

Alex smiled. “My family owns a Muggle newspaper in New York. I’m a bit of a voracious reader because of it. We used to summer in Rottingdean, and I grew acquainted with many of the British papers while I was here. I must admit, I had quite the pash on you. All those Quidditch articles while you were in your last year at Hogwarts kept me quite entertained. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you were not only an incredible Seeker, but a talented writer as well.”

Albus blushed. “Did you go to school in Europe?”

Alex shook his head. “Ilvermorny. But Quidditch in America never achieved the popularity that it enjoys here. I indulged my love of it through your papers and the WWN.”

“Have you been to any matches?”

“I was lucky enough to catch the US-Jamaica and US-Liechtenstein matches at the 2014 World Cup. Honestly, it was one of the most intense experiences I’ve ever had. Especially that first one.”

“Yeah. My mum covered that match as a reporter for the _Prophet_.” Albus grinned. “There was quite the controversy surrounding your win.”

“Truth’s stranger than fiction, right?” Alex laughed. “Jamaica’s hopes, felled by a vampiric bite. Was a heartbreak of a semi-final, though.”

“Definitely. But as exciting as those matches were, nothing beats being _in_ a game. Do you play?”

“A talent scout signed me after spotting me in my Quidditch leathers,” Alex answered with a twinkle in his eye. “Unfortunately, I have a no-play clause in my contract nowadays.” He drew nearer. “Albus—before you think I’m a total ass, there are two things I want to ask of you, and I hope you’ll hear me out. The first is this: I model because I enjoy it, but it’s a temporary thing. What I do right now, all the print and runway work, has a shelf life. In another year or two, when the next ‘It Boy’ comes along, I’ll be returning to my family in New York.

“I’m telling you this because my parents had brought me up in the news business with the hopes that I would eventually take over. And I want to. I’m not downplaying the gratification of writing for a local paper, but think about the changes you could make if you had a bigger stage.” Alex reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, handing it to Albus.

Albus took a look at the name that was engraved in the same typeface as its famous Masthead. “Merlin and Salazar. That’s your family’s paper?!”

“Yeah,” Alex said sheepishly. “I think you’d be a fantastic addition to the staff. I know it’s out of the blue, but I wanted you to have my contact number, in case it ever fits in with your plans.”

“Wow.” Albus looked up. “Moving to New York, writing for a large and reputable paper—it’s been my dream.” He heaved a sigh. “But there’s a lot of things happening right now at _Porte-Cochere_. Things that are exciting, and that I want to be a part of. _Am_ a part of,” he clarified. “It doesn’t mean I’m not flattered or interested, because I am. It just can’t happen now.”

“Okay. Keep it,” Alex said as Albus made a move to hand him back the card. “You said ‘not now.’ That always leaves room for ‘yes.’” He placed the card in the side pocket of Albus’ suit jacket, his hand lingering on Albus’ hip. “I like you, Albus,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I had a massive crush. And I hope you don’t think that I was too forward, but I asked Dean, and he mentioned you weren’t seeing anyone."

Alex was handsome and kind, and successful and smart, and altogether perfect. “I think I must be mad to say this,” Albus heard himself say. “But I can’t.” His eyes lifted of their own accord and followed Draco at the other end of the room.

Alex noted the direction of Albus’ gaze. “Ohhh.” He gave Albus a small smile. “I see.”

Albus gave a shaky laugh. “It’s a bit crazy, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“He’s an unrepentant workaholic who’s old enough to be my father, and who happens to be my boss. And speaking of fathers, mine has quite the contentious history with him.”

Alex whistled. “Maybe you just like the idea of a challenge.”

“I don’t think so.” Albus thought of the reasons behind Draco’s drive, and the hints of vulnerability that slipped through on rare occasions. As if hearing his thoughts, Draco turned towards Albus, meeting his gaze as Albus blushed.

“Oh, you have it bad. I know when I’m beat,” Alex laughed. He gave Albus a friendly buss on the cheek. “Both offers still stand, though. If your circumstances on either change, you know where to reach me.”


	4. Bias Cut (Albus, Draco)

“Albus.” Draco peered over the rim of his glasses from where he was seated behind his desk. “Did you confirm the reservation at Caviar Kaspia?”

“Yes. Next Friday, table for six at half past seven.” Albus flipped through the schedule for the upcoming week. “I also received an owl from Renaud Dupuis. He’s seated you front row center, and wishes to extend his greatest apologies.”

“Little too late for that,” Blaise snorted. “Dupuis should have realised who he was dealing with before he gave _A la Mode_ the Fall exclusive.”

“Blaise. For the next six months, I want a ban on the House of Dupuis on any of our cover pages.”

Blaise winced. “Dupuis usually reserves C4 in the December issue.”

“C4?” Albus mouthed to Terence.

“The back cover,” Terence whispered back.

Draco waved off Blaise’s worry. “We’ll find another. There will be plenty of others eager to jump at the chance. Perhaps if Renaud begs, we’ll give him a space in the back of the book.” A look of distaste crossed his face. “Actually, strike that. I’ve seen him do it, and it’s _not_ a pretty sight.” He sighed, then leant forward and scribbled something in the margins of his notes. “The last thing we have left to discuss is the digital magazine. I can’t believe that Paris Couture Week coincides with our launch,” he grumbled. “There’s not enough hours in the day.”

“Marketing ran the numbers,” Blaise said, pushing yet another paper towards the growing stack in front of Draco. “Don’t let the initial projections deter you. According to them, we’re not expecting a high income point in the initial stages. This is an investment for the long term. The Muggle companies who use these type of platforms aren’t doing it so much for direct revenue, but more to encourage brand recognition. The benefits are often seen in associated projects, like the glossy.”

“I was informed of this in our previous meetings. I don’t see why we’re sitting here, rehashing old news at a quarter past eight.”

Albus took a look outside. They’d been at it for over four hours already. The summer sun was still clinging to the edges of the horizon, washed pink against the outlines of the steel and glass buildings. He stretched, the long lines of his body pulling his shirt taut as he moved. He put his arms down quickly as he caught Draco staring at him, wearing a distinct frown.

One of the newly-hired site designers, a young woman named Margaret, piped up.

“Everything looks great in terms of the design, Mr Malfoy. The graphics are eye-popping, the layout mobile-friendly, and navigation of the site is really intuitive.”

Draco lifted a brow. “Why do I have the feeling that a ‘but’ is about to follow?”

Margaret coloured. “Well, it all comes back to what Mr Zabini was saying earlier. I wouldn’t be surprised if your competitors follow suit after your launch. In the beginning, you may not have to worry about any competition for advertising and readers, but that won’t be the case forever.”

Draco steepled his forehead in his hands. “So what you’re saying is that we need to not only establish a strong identity, but also give the public something they can’t receive anywhere else.”

“Exactly.” Blaise gestured to the invitations stacked neatly in the corner of Draco’s desk. “As exclusive as those are, think of how many other editors, photographers, buyers, and celebrities will be at those shows. We won’t be the only ones paying homage to Ursula Benedetti’s newest frou frou confection.”

Draco shook his head. “Yes, but while others may comment on how ethereal and diaphanous it looks, we’d be the ones asking why she was inspired to create it in the first place.”

“True,” Blaise said. “Insightful articles, up-to-date commentary, and a blogger who inspires both envy and empathy are all part of that magical equation. It helps to set us apart. But it’s not enough. We need something that would be impossible for any of our competitors to have.”

“You,” Albus said simply. “You were always _Porte-Cochere’s_ vision. You’re its voice.”

“Are you all in possession of a Time-turner I’m not aware of?” Draco drawled. “Because what you’re suggesting is impossible. There’s no way I can take on another responsibility.”

“It wouldn’t take much,” Albus argued. “An editorial, here and there. Otherwise, I think we’d be able to use the ones you write for the monthly, unless there’s a newsworthy event that requires your experience and insight.”

“We do feel, however, that you should leave your mark on the inaugural edition of the digital magazine,” Blaise amended.

“Obviously, you have a plan,” Draco said drily. “Are you going to include me in it?”

“It would be similar in concept to the photo shoot you did with Albus and Gemma. An article, peering into the mindset of _Porte-Cochere’s_ creator and founder.”

“Blaise.” Draco’s expression grew pinched. “What you’re asking is bloody impossible.”

“Draco, this is different. We would have control over what was published.”

Albus wondered at the silent communication which took place between the two long-time friends. He remembered a time when he’d just started at Hogwarts, when Scorpius was pulled out of school after an article in a now-defunct paper ripped open old Death Eater wounds, subjecting his mate to months of bullying in the process. Scorpius had held his head high upon his return, and it was rumoured that Draco had dragged the hapless reporter _and_ the reporter’s employer through the courts, effectively shuttering the paper as well as any future personal interviews he would grant in the process.

“You’re dropping this news on the weekend before our launch. And might I remind you that I have a Portkey to Paris for Couture Week in two days? We’ll just have to proceed as is and schedule the article for the next issue.”

“I can owl Michel Guevara to see if he’s available on short notice. He freelances now, and he’s always been favourable towards you.”

“I am _not_ spending the one free day I’ve had in over a month back in these offices, doing an interview.”

“I can do it,” Albus volunteered softly. “If you’ve time right after this meeting.” He watched, hopeful as Draco remained silent. “I can do it,” he repeated, with conviction. “I’ll have it completed in time for the launch. I’m familiar with you _and_ the magazine. I’ll make sure that what’s written is informative but respectful, especially of your privacy.” He made a moue. “Trust me, I know how important that is.”

Draco hesitated. “The last time I did one, it nearly destroyed my son.”

“Scorpius is my best mate. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise my friendship with him, or ruin my standing with you and everyone here in the process.”

He watched as a range of emotions flickered over Draco’s face. After what seemed to be an interminable pause, Draco relented.

“All right, Albus. You’ve certainly earned it. And, more importantly, I trust you.” He looked at his watch, its face unforgiving. “How much time do you think you’ll need?”

Albus scrunched up his brow. “An hour...maybe an hour and a half, at most?”

“And you could do this now?” Draco’s gaze was piercing. “It wouldn’t interfere with any plans?”

“None that couldn’t be changed.”

Blaise looked down at his notes, then snapped his portfolio closed. “I’ve nothing more on my end. Thank Merlin,” he added. “I’d like to enjoy the rest of my Friday. What little’s left of it, anyway.”

"Everything's set on my end as well," Terence confirmed. "Mona La Vie has confirmed her availability for next Wednesday. So we're all set to go with the centre spread."

Draco waved them off. “Blaise; Floo me tomorrow so we can finalise the Portkey arrangements for Sunday.”

Margaret bit her lip. “Do you need me to stay, Mr Malfoy?”

Albus shook his head when Draco turned to him in question. “I should be able to get a draft to you and your team by Monday, Mags, so you can configure the layout.”

“You’re free to go, then, Ms Abernathy.”

“Brill.” She hooked her rucksack over her shoulder, giving a cheery wave as she followed Blaise and Terence out. “‘Night, Mr Malfoy.” She stared at Albus meaningfully. “‘Night, Albie.”

“’Night, Mags,” Albus grinned.

“Albie?” Draco asked once the door had snicked shut.

“Beats ‘Potter Junior,’” Albus deadpanned.

Draco chuckled. “Touché.” He was quiet for a moment after, the silence hanging thick between them. “How would you like to do this?”

The question, brushed with uncertainty, was oddly touching. “Whatever makes you most comfortable,” Albus replied. “I’m pretty much open to anything. But I’d recommend somewhere familiar. Not anyplace overly-crowded, since you’d be more focused on maintaining your public persona. I’d be cautious of Muggle coffee houses as well—too many temptations, between their brews and sweets. And I’d probably stay away from the Manor, or anywhere else where bringing a stranger in would seem like an invasion of your privacy.”

“You know me so well,” Draco conceded with a shrug. “It would hardly be right for me to call you a stranger at this point.” He looked around the office. The last of the sunlight was fading fast through the wall of windows, the lights of the city blinking to life. “I guess here is as good a place as any.”

“All right,” Albus said. He dug around his messenger bag and pulled out a writing tablet and a quill. “Perhaps we can do this over here?” he suggested, pointing to the chair which Blaise had just vacated. “That desk is a bit of a barrier. Of course, you can stop the interview at any time, or let me know if any of the questions are off limits.”

“Trust me. I have no qualms about letting you know if you’ve crossed the line,” Draco said with a sardonic smile. He walked over and slid into the seat gracefully.

Albus grinned as Draco appeared to be back on familiar footing. “Okay. Let’s start with something easy. You’ve always been known for your sense of style. When did you first develop it?”

Draco removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, then crossed one leg over the other. Even as he adopted the casual position, he personified elegance and power. “There is fashion, and there is style. Alber Elbaz once said that ‘Style is the only thing you can’t buy.’ He believed that it was something that was reflected from our souls, back to the outside world. Growing up, I had been exposed from a very young age to fashion. My upbringing was comprised of holidays in different parts of the world, over the seasons. I attended soirees, and formal dinners, and balls. And I was lucky enough to have access to some of the most well-known designers in the wizarding world.”

“So would it be accurate to say that you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth?”

“Undoubtedly. But spoons can choke as well as feed. My sense of style came much later. Certain things that I’d worn as a child—fur-lined cloaks, for example—I would never think to wear nowadays. Although I suppose they appealed to my tendency for the dramatic.”

“So when do you think your style became solidified?”

“I think conceptualised may be more appropriate. We all have the ability to change, which is why fashion is fluid, although it holds consistently to some basic truths. In my case, I would say it was when I finally came to terms with myself as an individual. With regards to my sexuality, as well as my role in the world—wizarding, and otherwise.” Draco hesitated, then stood. He walked over to the credenza and pulled out two wine glasses and a bottle, then cast a spell to remove the cork.

“A Petrus Pomerol bordeaux,” he announced, setting it in front of them. “Too good of a vintage to aerate with the enhancement of magic. Incentive, for when this interview is complete. Or fortification, if it goes poorly. Now, where were we?”

“You mentioned coming to terms with yourself in the world. Could you elaborate?” Albus asked gently.

“My family believed strongly in things that I know now not to be true. The events of the War were instrumental in showing how fundamentally flawed they were. I am proud of being a pureblood, but while my history and lineage contribute to my identity, I understand now that it is not an equation of my worth.

“The years after the War were...difficult. I was forced to re-evaluate my responsibilities. I struggled to come to terms with my sexuality, which led to the end of my marriage. I forced myself to learn about Muggle culture. Imagine my delight when I discovered the wonders of a pair of well-fitted, Muggle trousers.”

Albus smiled. “Something that we both have in common. So, did your love for both Muggle and wizarding fashion lead you to starting _Porte-Cochere_?”

“Yes, and no. The impetus was more dire than that. After the War, many of my friends were left financially distressed, especially after the reparations. Shoppes and banks refused to do business with us, and people refused to give us a job. So we relied on what we knew—fashion. I dug into what little liquid funds I had to spearhead the project.”

“I heard a rumour once, regarding _Porte-Cochere’s_ name. Was that your idea, and how did you come upon it?”

Something sad and wistful seemed to settle over Draco. “We devoted every waking hour, and nearly every Sickle we had to the magazine. We had hoped that it would provide a safe look into the fashion world for our readers. And for us—a safe entry back into society.”

Albus nodded. " _Porte-Cochere_ is now the leading fashion magazine in all of Europe, with an annual subscription of nearly 4.8 million readers for your print copy. That’s an exceptional success, especially considering its beginnings. How were you able to convince someone to publish that first issue?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Draco admitted, shaking his head at the memory. “I couldn’t get my Galleons converted to Muggle currency, especially for that amount of money. It took some pleading and a detailed business proposition to convince a very unlikely source to assist us.”

“Are you able to share that source with your readers?”

“Yes. Our benefactor has remained silent—not because of any guilt through association, but because of her humility and grace. My feeling is that she never wanted to detract from _Porte-Cochere’s_ eventual success. But we paid tribute to her secretly, through our logo.”

Albus picked up one of the letterheads on Draco’s desk. There was a line drawing of a coach gate attached to an elegant home, and a full moon and the heavens above it.

“Luna?!” he asked as he worked out the puzzle. “Luna Lovegood was your benefactor?”

Draco gave a small nod. “We gave her a nominal sum to utilise the presses of _The Quibbler._ It was just enough to cover the materials and cost. She’d refused anything more, saying that the opportunity to reinvent oneself for the better shouldn’t have a price tag placed on it.”

Albus took a break from writing and mulled over Draco’s words. “So you took _Porte-Cochere_ from its humble and inauspicious beginnings, to one of the most successful magazines in the business. You occupy the top floor of one of the most coveted addresses in the business district of Wizarding London, have the ears of the top designers, and employ a full-time staff of nearly one hundred.”

“True. And it’s something I’m quite proud of. I poured every bit of my soul into this venture. I refused to compromise its integrity, and the people I surrounded myself with were of the same mentality. We were loyal to each other and the concept, even as we were driven by necessity.”

Albus bit his lower lip. The admission was incredibly touching. It made Draco’s unrelenting work ethic, and demand for perfection, all the more understandable and heartbreaking.

He drew nearer. “You mentioned earlier that style is a reflection of the soul. You sit in front of me, wearing a bespoke suit, and are in possession of a wardrobe that’s the envy of any fashionista. What do you think that says about where you are now?”

Draco shook his head. “This was not always the case. When times were lean, I learned how to charm the things I had to make them au courant. It’s true that success has granted me access to the best tailors, but I hope the image I project is one of elegance. Of clean lines. Of silhouettes that flatter, without concealing the truth.”

“There are those who believe that a three-piece suit speaks of power and intimidation.”

Draco flashed his familiar smirk. “I prefer to think of it as competence and confidence.”

Albus smiled at the opening. “Those are things that I think would be helpful in today’s publishing world. The competition for readership is fierce. What are some of the things _Porte-Cochere_ is doing to hold on to its top spot?”

“Well, I think that there is always room for a fresh voice. But that’s the key...to be able to say something new, instead of rehashing what everyone’s heard before. And to look at what the readers want, in a manner that is appropriate for their world. That’s why we’re so excited about this launch. I’ve had the great fortune of having new people come onto staff this year, who bring with them incredible ideas, and whom I trust to bring the newest in fashion and lifestyle to a whole new segment of readers.”

“Sounds brilliant.”

“They are.” The sharp angles of Draco’s cheeks turned pink. “He is.”

Albus’s pulse jumped as he watched Draco’s eyes darken. “I—” He made a move to place his pad on the table, growing flustered. The corner caught the bottom of the wine bottle, causing it to teeter.

Draco lunged forward to grab its top as Albus reached for the base. The bottle wobbled, then righted, but not before some of the wine had spilled onto the front of Draco’s trousers.

“Oh, God. _Fuck_.” Albus fell to his knees. He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and began to dab at the growing stain. “Fuck.”

“Albus.”

 _Perhaps_ a Scourgify, Albus thought, blotting furiously. Although knowing his luck, he’d probably damage the material more...

“Albus. Stop.” Draco’s hand clamped down over Albus’ wrist. His pupils were dilated, the evidence of his arousal tenting the front of his trousers. “I can take it from here,” he said hoarsely.

Albus took one look at the poorly-concealed lust on Draco's face and made a decision. He splayed out his fingers, and let them drift higher.

Draco closed his eyes. _“Fuck."_

Albus traced the outline of Draco's prick, which jumped happily in response. “Trust me; it's not what you think. If I'd wanted to get ahead with favours, I would have done so already. I’m a Potter, remember?”

“Bloody hell, you’re going to be my undoing," Draco whispered. He grabbed the front of Albus’ shirt and hauled him up, their lips meeting desperately. Their tongues collided, the sweep of Draco’s inside Albus’ mouth sparking a blooming heat that settled in his chest until it finally gentled, turning into something tender and soft.

They pulled back to catch their breaths. Draco stared at Albus, his eyes half-lidded and posh mouth swollen as they parted. “Your family," he rasped. "They—”

“Raised me well enough to trust what’s in my gut and to make my own decisions.”

The grey of Draco’s eyes had thinned to slivers. “You're sure?” he urged.

Albus took Draco’s hand and slid it along the front of his trousers. He bit back a groan as Draco palmed his aching cock, his head slumping forward as he thrust out his hips, seeking more pressure. “Fuck, yeah,” Albus breathed against the curve of Draco’s neck, delighting when he felt Draco shiver. “I want you, Draco. Please.”

“All right,” Draco growled. “But I’ll be damned if I'll have you here.” He reached for his wand and sent the bottle and glasses to the credenza, then held Albus tight against him and Apparated them both.

They landed on something downy and soft that smelled of summer and fresh linens. Draco hovered over him, his body taut, his gaze hungry and possessive. “Have you been thinking about me often, Albus?” Draco asked. He pulled Albus’ stained t-shirt over his head, his gaze raking hungrily over Albus’ naked torso as he cast it to the floor.

“God, yes.” Albus let out a long sigh, relishing the feel of Draco’s mouth on his neck and the coolness of the sheets against his heated skin. “You’ve no idea.” He arched his back; Draco moved lower, tonguing a nipple until it pebbled. “I can barely focus when you're around.”

Draco nipped the pointy bud, smiling as Albus hissed. “Tell me,” he said, lifting his head, his tone commanding, yet playful. “Tell me what you thought about.”

“I thought…” Albus hitched his breath; it was so hard to speak with Draco’s hands running hot all over him. He lifted his hips while Draco made quick work of his trousers, groaning in embarrassment as his cock sprang out, eager and flushed. “In the morning, when we'd go over your daily schedule, I’d imagine you bending me over your desk and taking me,” he blushed.

Draco cupped Albus’ balls, grinning wickedly as he slid a finger along the crease of Albus' bum. “Did you want me to fuck you?" he whispered as Albus shuddered. "Take you from behind?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, gods, yes.” Albus let out a grateful moan as Draco began to stroke the length of his cock.

"You're magnificent," Draco declared, his hand speeding as Albus shuddered, his voice rough.

“Hurry,” Albus whined, impatiently bucking into Draco’s fist. "Get it in me."

Draco turned Albus around so that Albus lay on his belly. “Such a greedy, demanding boy. We've barely started.”

Albus gasped, the brush of the sheets exquisite against his aching cock. “I want to feel you, Draco. Fuck me. Please.”

There was a clink of a belt buckle, followed by the unzipping of Draco’s trousers. A powerful prep spell swept over Albus. The tingling sensation had barely left his arse, now stretched and dripping with lube, when he felt the press of a finger against its swollen rim.

“How do you want it, Albus? What did you think about when you were getting yourself off? Getting fucked hard and fast? Or gentle and slow?”

"All that. But for now..." Albus moaned as Draco thrust two, then three, fingers inside. “...want you to do me. Hard," he pleaded. He pushed out his arse, the lube squelching as Draco twisted and prodded, the heat building at the base of his spine.

“Salazar's balls," Draco breathed. He removed his fingers, his lips tracing the curve of Albus’ arse. There was a swift intake of breath as Albus keened, his body following the path of Draco’s mouth.

Draco shifted onto his knees. The mattress dipped under his weight, followed by the heaviness of his hand on Albus' arse as the head of his cock came to a rest against Albus’ rim.

“Yes. _Fuck_ , yes.” Albus leaned onto his elbows, presenting his arse further. A litany of pleased sounds spilled from his lips, their pitch rising as Draco slid into Albus with one, long push.

Albus' eyes rolled back as the painful stretch gave way to an almost unbearable fullness. “Oh, God," he moaned. "Oh, God..."

Draco gripped the sides of Albus’ hips, his movements fueling Albus’ cries as he snapped his hips forward. His hands roamed over Albus’ buttocks, cupping, squeezing, and prising his cheeks apart. "That’s it, Albus. Let me hear you,” he crooned.

Albus' prick swung wildly in front of him, the growing tendrils of pleasure coiling rapidly in his groin.

 _"Merlin_ , I’m going to come.” Albus threw his head back, his eyes squeezing shut as he grabbed the base of his cock.

Draco slapped his hand away. His breath was hot and prickly against the line of Albus’ neck. “Do it, Albus," he commanded. “Come for me. Come on just my cock.”

The filthy words, along with the detectable strain of something proprietorial in Draco’s voice, were too much. Albus wailed, flecks of his spunk hitting his chest and the bed. His arms trembled, straining under the weight as Draco continued to drive into him, panting with each increasingly erratic thrust.

“Albus,” he cried. “Oh, Albus.” Draco came with a shout, an exultant, primal sound. He leant forward, wrapping his arms around Albus’ chest as he continued to move, their bodies rocking together. Finally he softened and slipped out, the words of gratitude and amazement tumbling from his lips as they eventually collapsed into an exhausted heap.

**.~xOx~.**

Draco awoke to the unfamiliar warmth of the sun streaming across his face. Typically, his day started with a run along the Thames well before dawn. There was something in the way the lights reflected off the river, and the unusual stillness of the typically bustling city, that made him feel grounded.

Instead, he was lying in bed, with a tanned arm strewn across his chest and an ample cock pressed up against his arse.

“Morning,” someone said by way of greeting, their sexy voice still thick and rough with sleep. “What are you doing up so early?”

Draco turned and found himself staring at Albus Severus Potter.

If he thought Albus was stunning in Officine Générale, it was nothing compared to this. Albus’ eyes were half-lidded, his lashes so long they nearly reached his cheek. A smattering of freckles dotted the bridge of his nose, tinged pink by the warmth of the sun. When he spoke, his lips seemed to curl over each word, their movements pillowy and soft.

 _Merlin's tits._ Draco closed his eyes at the memory of those lips wrapped around his cock. They had gone after each other not once, but twice after Draco had already fucked Albus from behind. The first had been with Albus’ magnificent prick stuffed up Draco’s arse. Albus had come quickly that time as well, but he'd repaid Draco by pulling out and sucking him off. The second was when Draco had been awoken by a horny and determined Albus, who pushed their dicks together and whispered words of debauched encouragement as he stroked them expertly, bringing them both to completion.

Draco felt a headache building behind his eyes. “It’s hardly early,” he answered irritably.

“Hmm. Is that why you’re so cross?” Albus teased. He sat up and stretched, his muscles rippling deliciously. “Be back in a sec. Gotta use the loo.” He stood up and looked around, his cock swaying heavily between his legs.

Draco swallowed; the evidence of their activity was encrusted all over Albus’ stomach. “Through there,” Draco managed, pointing to the en suite. He tried to ignore Albus’ glorious backside as he swaggered off, all youthful muscle and bedraggled hair.

Moments later, there was the flush of a toilet and the sound of running water. “I’m starved,” Albus declared once he returned. “Do you want to...?” A worried look crossed his face as he took in Draco's expression. “What's wrong?"

Draco jumped out of bed and summoned a robe. “This was a mistake,” he started he as he covered himself. “It can’t happen again.”

“What are you talking about?" Albus asked, confused.

"I’ve worked too hard to lose everything because of our indiscretion. We launch in a little over a week.”

Two spots of colour formed high on Albus’ cheeks. "I've no problem separating both sides of our relationship. And if you're worried about any possible ethical breach, I remember giving you my explicit consent.”

“There is no ‘relationship’ between us. Only...some silly infatuation.”

Albus' face hardened. "Really? Yours, or mine?”

Draco’s lips curled into a sneer. “You’re the one who came onto me.”

Albus’ eyes narrowed, his voice rising in anger. “I don’t know who in your life's made you so mistrustful, but fuck you for thinking I’m the same.”

"You're out of line, Albus," Draco snapped. “I’ve fired people for much less than what you’ve just said."

Albus lifted his chin. “Go on, then. Fire me.”

“Cut the sanctimonious posturing. You’re leaving, anyway. It could be four weeks from now, or four months. Or maybe even sooner.” Draco’s eyes grew flinty. “Were you ever going to tell me about Alex Nilsson and his offer?”

Albus turned red. “I’m not sure how you found out about Alex, but I’m still here in London. Not New York.”

Draco found himself reaching into that childish part of him, the part that lashed out with anger whenever his insecurities were at the fore. “Perhaps Alex wasn’t going about it the right way. Perhaps instead of giving you his card, he should have given you his cock.”

Albus snatched up his shirt, throwing it on, then yanking on his trousers.

“You know what?” he said quietly, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “I could almost forgive you for lashing out at the thought of losing the magazine, because I know how much it means to you. But what I can’t forgive is how little you think of me. Not only that I would sell myself to advance my career, but that I couldn’t achieve my dreams based on my own merit, That I wouldn’t have your, or my co-workers,’ best interests at heart.” He slipped on his shoes and stood, his shoulders stiff. “You expect people to leave, but the truth is, you’re the one who drives them away. You don't have to worry about firing me, Draco. I quit.”

Albus walked out the door, taking the morning sun along with him. Draco shivered. A part of him wanted to follow those footsteps, to gather Albus in his arms and apologise. But he’d spent too much of his life being overly-protective of his heart. He stood there instead, with bated breath, and several seconds later, there was the sound of Disapparation, and Albus was gone.


	5. The Call Back (Draco, Albus)

“What is this?!”

“It’s...it’s your breakfast, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco looked up from the twisted curls of pastry dough, his nostrils flaring. “Mr Zabini gave you strict instructions regarding my breakfast order.”

“They were out of cinnamon buns.” The young man gulped, visibly trembling. I thought this would be the next best thing.”

“I run a successful magazine, Mr Hill,” Draco sneered. “I did not get where I am today by making pitiful excuses. What would a client say if I told them that we went with a digital image instead of the rotogravure because we didn’t have the time to make the plate? What do you think they'd say, after they’d paid us in excess of seventy-five thousand Galleons?”

“I’m terribly sorry, Mr Malfoy. It won’t happen again.”

“It certainly won’t. You’re fired.”

The former EA’s hasty exit was followed by a string of colourful expletives as Blaise burst into the office.

“Not now, Blaise,” Draco said, without looking up from his ledgers.

“That’s five EAs that you’ve sacked in as many days! I’m not running another ad. Tomorrow, get your own bloody breakfast!”

“The idiot didn’t know the difference between a cinnamon bun and a Franzbrötchen. How am I supposed to entrust him with anything else?”

“Your standards are _impossible_ , Draco. No one can live up to them.”

“That’s not true,” Draco said quietly. “There was somebody, once.”

Blaise gave Draco a long, hard look. “Are you finally ready to tell me what the fuck happened with Albus?”

Draco stared. “He moved on. As did we.”

“Albus suddenly quit—five days before our scheduled digital launch, abandoning an idea that he helped develop from the start. That doesn’t seem like the Albus I know.”

“Well, the Albus I know also has plans that don’t include _Porte-Cochere_.”

“Ahh.” Blaise looked down at his nails. “And by _Porte-Cochere,_ do you also mean you?”

“Don’t start, Blaise.”

“What happened on the night of the interview? Did Albus step over the line?” Blaise hesitated, the furrow deepening between his brows. “Did...something slip out?”

“Slip _in_ is more like it.” Draco rolled his eyes upon seeing Blaise’s stunned expression. “Fuck, Blaise, you know I have a type. We’d been dancing around each other for weeks. And maybe it was the interview, or the excitement over the project, or the late hour, but before I knew it, there was a Potter in my lap, begging to be fucked.”

“Charming,” Blaise said drily. “And you, of course, declined.”

“Would you have?”

Blaise ignored the question. “What happened next? And spare me the salacious details. I don’t want to be privy to anything that could be considered incriminating.”

“I brought him back to my flat, where I proceeded to fuck him. Several hours later, he returned the favour. And somewhere around dawn, he wanked us both.”

Blaise’s brows nearly disappeared into his hairline. “First, what did I just tell you? Second, three times in one night? Seriously? Was there sex magic involved?”

“To be young.” The humour in Draco’s voice faded. “ _Too_ young. And too wrong, in many ways. What if I failed you, and everyone else, because of my mistake?”

“You’re a leading name in an industry that was previously dominated by witches. You’ve restored our names and fortunes. You’ve raised a brilliant and beautiful son. No matter what else happens, I don’t think anyone could consider you a failure.

"Now, regarding Albus...only you can decide if he's someone you want to pursue. But you’ve lived your life for far too long with your head, and not your heart.”

“I can’t go through that again. It took you and Pansy the good part of the year to convince me to stop wallowing in self-pity.”

“Well, you were always a bit of an obstinate git,” Blaise said fondly. “But when all is said and done, after Scorpius is off living his life with his own family, what will you have left to occupy your days? Will _Porte-Cochere_ be enough?”

Draco took a deep breath. “Funny. Astoria asked me that very thing the other day.”

“I always thought she was smart. Questionable choices in husbands aside.”

“Prat.” Draco placed his glasses down on the desk and rubbed his eyes. “He’s young and ambitious, and has dreams which don’t align with mine.”

“Different doesn’t mean to incompatible. You have to trust that the person you fell for—in this case, one who happens to be as honourable as he is smart and fit—will continue to live by his principles.” Blaise withdrew something from his suit pocket. “Here,” he said, pushing the parchment towards Draco. “Albus wrote the article. Even after he resigned, he made sure we had it in time for the launch.”

Draco’s voice shook. “It’s too late. I tried to apologise. My owl came back...my letter, unopened.”

“Draco; this isn’t a business transaction. Don’t you think the message would be better delivered in person?” Blaise asked gently.

Draco’s heart twisted. “I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but the rumour is that he was offered a job at the _New York Record_.”

“Of course I’ve heard,” Blaise scoffed. “I also heard that their offer was an incredibly generous one.” He paused, looking at Draco intently. “And that the young man turned it down.”

Draco stared at Blaise. “He did?”

“Yes. I guess some people don’t know a good thing when they see it.” He stood up, straightening his jacket. “Read the bloody article,” he repeated, walking to the door. “And then get your head out of your arse, swallow your pride, and do what’s necessary to get Albus back.”

**.~xOx~.**

The eyes which greeted him were achingly familiar and intensely green, and decidedly unfriendly.

“Malfoy. What are you doing here?”

“I…” Draco halted. The smell of rosemary and a roast wafted past the door, and somewhere in the background, several voices were raised in laughter. “I didn’t mean to intrude. But I need to speak with you.”

“This couldn’t have waited? It’s Sunday. I’m with my family; we have company.”

“Harry. Please. You know I would never ask if it weren’t important.”

Something in his tone must have been convincing. “Fine,” Harry finally said, stepping aside.

“Actually…” Draco peered around Harry’s shoulder. Ginny and Hermione were chatting in the living room, along some unruly sprogs. “Do you mind if we went somewhere a bit more private?”

Harry looked back at the busy scene behind him and nodded. He summoned his robe, the garment fitting easily across the width of his shoulders. “I hope you’ve got your walking shoes on,” he smirked with a pointed look at Draco’s brogues.

“I’ll have you know, these are Stefano Ricci. It’s like walking on air,” Draco sniffed.

Harry shrugged. “Suit yourself. Let me tell Gin that I’m heading out.”

Draco nodded. There was something about the charming and well-kept home that made him feel like an intruder, and he decided to wait for Harry at the end of the walkway. The deep blue waters of Lulworth Cove were visible in the distance, punctuated by the chalky cliffs and prominent sea stacks which dotted the coast. Even the tall grass seemed overly-idyllic, with their yellow-green blades cocooning the pink, balloon-blossoms of Dorset heath.

“Ready.”

Draco turned. Harry stood beside him, a cigarette in hand. The late afternoon sun highlighted the strands of his hair—still full and thick, and slightly silvered at the temples. His square jaw was shadowed with stubble, and the furrows in his brow no longer resembled the anxious lines of an uncertain boy, but the gravitas of a man who had lived a hard-won, but fulfilling, life.

“You look well, Harry,” Draco said softly.

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. “So do you. Though I guess that’s not entirely unexpected. You always were unfairly fit.” He barked out a laugh, then lit his cigarette, the end hissing and glowing red.

“You still smoke.”

Harry spread out his hands. “Guilty as charged. But only on special occasions.” He reached into his pocket and held up the packet of fags towards Draco.

Draco shook his head. “I quit.” And then, because he was never able to help himself, “I guess some habits are easier to kick than others.”

They stood there, in awkward silence. Harry gave in first, turning towards a footpath that wound slowly along the top of the cliffs. The breeze picked up; despite its warmth, Draco shivered.

“You always did love it here,” Draco said, his voice wistful. “I used to resent that you ended up making it your home.” He dug his hands in his pockets. “But it suits you.”

“I’ve a lot of fond memories of this place,” Harry said gruffly.

“Some not such good ones, either. Merlin, our last fight…” Draco’s voice trailed. He swallowed, blinking at the brightness of the light.

“We never could get our timing right, could we? You were pulled by responsibility and duty. And by the time you’d made your decision, I was faced with mine.”

Draco took a step forward, the underbrush snapping beneath his feet. “Some break. Nearly twenty-five years, and counting.”

“Do you ever wonder? What if?”

Draco turned to Harry, incredulous. “All I did was question and wonder. You were the one who got married first.”

Harry fisted his robes. The nervous behaviour, reminiscent of the shy and awkward boy who brimmed with a suppressed passion, made Draco’s heart stick in his throat. “I waited for you, Draco. Gave you your space; waited for _any_ sign of hope. And when that photo came out of you and Astoria in _Witch Weekly_ —”

“A photograph which my father planted to deflect rumours about his bent son! You, of all people, should have known how these things work!” Draco grimaced. “Although it was oddly prophetic. You and Ginevra; Astoria and I.”

“Ginny was already pregnant by the time I’d found out the truth.” Harry breathed deeply, the setting sun casting a glow that turned back the years to a time long ago. “I won’t apologise for what happened after, Draco. I loved you—with an intensity that was almost frightening. But I also love Ginny; I have a beautiful family now as a result of it. I wouldn’t trade them, and the security of our love, for the world.”

“I wouldn’t, either,” Draco admitted, with some degree of surprise. Some of the bitterness of the past two decades slowly seeped away, leaving him lighter. “Scorpius is the one undeniable bright spot in my life. He’s someone I never thought I’d deserved. And yet, he genuinely loves me.” He chuckled. “And I have _Porte-Cochere_. I must admit, the day that we buried _Witch Weekly_ in the rankings was one of celebration.”

“You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished.” Harry peered at Draco from under his lashes. “Albus spoke very highly of you and your staff.”

Draco drew in his breath. “Actually, Harry, Albus is the reason why I sought you out.”

Harry was unable to hide his shock. “You’re here to talk about Albus.”

“You know that he’s been working for me the last several months—”

“ _Was_ working.”

“Was working,” Draco conceded. “Did he tell you why he left?”

Harry took a long drag of his cigarette. “Al never said,” he admitted, exhaling. “To be honest, Gin and I didn’t even know he was working for you until Dean let it slip. Al’s brilliant, but he’s fiercely independent. Maybe he craves his independence more than any of our other kids because—well, because of his physical resemblance to me.” Harry paused, grimacing as he ashed the cigarette on the ground. “He never wanted to rely on anyone else to achieve his dreams.”

“I understand he was offered a job in New York.”

“Yes,” Harry's eyes narrowed. “Albus doesn’t work for you anymore. Why do you need to speak with him?”

Draco took a deep breath. “I’d rather not say.”

Harry’s frown deepened.“You’re fishing around for my son’s whereabouts. If he’d wanted you to know, he would have told you himself. So you’re asking me to violate his confidence, without telling me why.”

“If I told you, I’d be violating his confidence as well. Suffice it to say, I owe Albus an apology.”

“What did you do, Draco?” Harry hissed, stepping closer. His face grew white with fury, his magic gathering dangerously around him. “Did you tell him about us? Did you…did you use him, to get back at me?!”

“No!" Draco cried. “Bloody hell, none of that happened! I'm in love with him!”

Harry stepped back, visibly shaken. “You're _what_?” he whispered.

“Fuck.” Draco staggered under the weight of the confession as he ran his hands through his hair. “I’m in love with your son,” he repeated, slightly hysterical.

“You… Merlin, _you’re_ the one who Albus was mooning around about?!” Harry looked a little queasy. He sat down on a rocky outcropping. “How did this happen?”

“I wasn’t trying to relive the past, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Draco walked over and sat down next to Harry. “Things just...happened. Albus is, as you said, brilliant and gifted. He’s thoughtful and kind. He became an indispensable part of the office _and_ my life. And...bloody fuck, Harry, I miss him.” He hesitated as his mind caught up with something Harry had said. “Wait. Albus was mooning over me?” he asked, unable to suppress a grin.

Harry snorted. “I won’t presume to speak for my son. And I refuse to play a part in something that could hurt him. You don’t have a good track record when it comes to relationships, Draco. And Al—well, Al’s very much like me, but also not. He’s the most pure-hearted and sensitive out of all my children. I won’t see his idealism destroyed.”

Draco felt his chance slipping away. “Please,” he said, ready to get on his knees. “I’ll admit that I’ve closed my heart off for far too long. But Albus has found his way in, despite that. I can’t predict the future, because it’s not just me who has a say in it. And I can’t promise that everything will be smooth sailing. But I know, with all my heart, that I want to try. You knew me, once, Harry. You saw what I was capable of, if given the chance.”

Draco extended his hand. The sun breathed its last gasp as he waited for Harry’s response.

**.~xOx~.**

“Day’s too pretty to be wasting it in here, handsome.”

Albus looked up at the middle-aged woman who slid a menu in front of him. “Hey, Millie.” He waved aside the laminated booklet. “I’ll have the usual: three eggs over-easy, a side of streaky bacon, and potato hash. Oh, and a cup of coffee, please.”

Milie looked him up and down. “Don’t know where you put it all, honey,” she declared. “How’s that book of yours coming along?”

“We’ll see.” Albus held up a small, leather-bound journal. “Heading over to Shakespeare Garden after breakfast to find some inspiration.”

“You English and your gardens,” Millie grinned.

Albus batted his eyelashes and pressed a hand to his heart as he recited: “ _I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and eglantine_.”

Millie fanned herself. “One day, you’re going to sweep some lucky girl off her feet.”

“The only woman I’ve got eyes for is you,” Albus teased.

“Incorrigible flirt.” She picked up the menu and set down some utensils wrapped in a thick napkin. “I’ll be back with your breakfast in a jiffy.”

Albus smiled, and pulled out his pen. He jotted down some ideas on the journal’s ivory pages, along with several sketches. Time passed as he grew lost in his thoughts; too soon, a plate was set down in front of him, along with something sweet and sticky at its center.

“Millie?” Albus looked up. “Sorry, love, but I think you’ve got the wrong table. Eggs, remember?”

“That’s coming up. _This_ is from that handsome gentleman at the counter.” Millie winked, then moved on to the next table, leaving Albus with a thudding heart and gaping mouth.

Draco stood, looking every inch as gorgeous and perfect as Albus had remembered. “Hello, Albus. I thought that this time, I'd buy you breakfast.” He flashed a hesitant smile, then indicated the cinnamon roll on the table. "May I join you?”

Albus nodded. He placed his hands at his sides, trying to stop their shaking as Draco slid into the booth across from him. “You forgot the six-shot ristretto,” he said hoarsely.

Draco erupted with relieved laughter. “I tried,” he said, his grey eyes crinkling at the corners. “But your Millie looked at me as if I had sprouted wings, and then she threatened to boot me to the Starbucks at the corner.”

Albus huffed. “I know someone who would have fired you for not making the extra effort.”

“I know someone who travelled over three-thousand miles to apologise for being an arse.”

Albus remained silent, but his lips twitched at the corners.

Draco reached out. “How are you enjoying New York?”

Albus allowed himself a small smile. “A lot. It’s busy; it’s vibrant. I miss my family and friends, of course. But I’m excited to be here.”

If Draco registered the slight, he didn’t show it. “I heard you were offered a job as a staff reporter for the _New York Record_.” He paused, looking as if he’d swallowed a particularly sour lemon. “It certainly is a prestigious position.”

“You heard correctly. I haven’t told them my answer though, one way or another.”

Draco let out a long exhale. “What have you been doing in the meantime?”

Albus gave an embarrassed laugh. “Doing lots of touristy stuff. Getting a feel for the people, the smells, the places.” He held up his book. “Writing.”

“May I see?”

Albus hesitated, then handed it over to Draco. _"The Dragon Wears Dorsilk_? You’re writing fiction?” Draco asked, surprised.

Albus’ cheeks pinkened. He knew that his sketches—of Terence and Gemma, the offices of _Porte-Cochere_ , and of Draco himself—would leave no question as to the source of his inspiration. “I wanted to write about something that meant a lot to me.”

“And how do you see the story ending?” Draco asked, his eyes hopeful and expectant.

The noise of the diner faded into the background as Albus’ blush deepened. “I haven’t figured out the ending yet. But I’ve always been a romantic. In my heart of hearts, the protagonist gets the guy.”

“I think that’s the best ending of all.” Draco leaned closer, his sharp lines and chiseled profile doing crazy things to Albus’ pulse. “I once believed that fairy tale endings were for the foolish and naive. But I realise now that it was I who was foolish, for living with blinders on my eyes and walls around my heart.”

Albus watched Draco intently. “Love isn’t just realising what someone means to you. Love also means not pushing them away.”

“Agreed. But I’m here now, trying my best to bring you back, for what it’s worth.”

“I’m not ready to go back to England, Draco,” Albus said softly. “And I can’t promise that I’ll ever be.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. But since we’re on the subject, Blaise showed me the article you’d written for the launch. It was brilliant—engaging, informative, and relevant.” He moved in closer, taking Albus’ hand in his own. “I’ve been thinking about creating a sister magazine to _Porte-Cochere._ Americans are enamoured with celebrity and fashion, and present a very attractive market. Of course, I’d need a staff of editors to help guide its vision and content, preferably those who are in tune with American culture.”

Albus bit his lower lip. “I can’t take a job to assuage your guilt. Or worse, because you consider me as someone more than your employee.”

Draco shook his head. “I’m offering you the position because you’re the best person for the job. As great as your article was, what struck me most was the way in which you handled our interview. You were respectful, but you forced me to look deep inside myself. And you allowed me a safe space, despite my vulnerability. I want that in my life, Albus,” Draco said softly. “And Merlin, do I want that with you.”

The tightness in Albus’ chest dissipated, a warmth blooming in its place. “Are you asking me to be your boyfriend, Draco Malfoy?” he smiled.

“I’m a forty-eight year old man,” Draco snorted. “‘Boyfriend’ seems so...trite.”

“Your partner, then? Or, your lover?” Albus teased, arching a brow.

“Fine.” Draco surrendered, throwing his hands up in the air. “You can call me whatever you’d like, if it means giving me another chance.”

“Hmmm.” Albus pretended to consider Draco’s request. “How’s this for an answer, then?” Albus closed the gap, his lips meeting Draco’s. Draco’s mouth opened in surprise, then returned the sentiment in equal measure.

Draco's lips were soft and dizzying. The heel of Albus’ hand caught against the rim of the plate, causing the cinnamon roll to slide onto the table.

“Oh, shit,” Albus laughed as they broke apart, gazing at the sticky mess. “Sorry about that.”

“Never mind.” Draco smiled, his expression warm and joyous as he pulled Albus in for another kiss. “Cinnamon buns are so last season. I’ve discovered something that I love much better.”

_**~Fin~** _

**Author's Note:**

> *Come say "hi" on [Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nerdherderette)


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